


Avonlea Books

by smartgirlsaremean



Series: Avonlea Books [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - You've Got Mail Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartgirlsaremean/pseuds/smartgirlsaremean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bookshop owner Belle French and business tycoon Roderick Gold butt heads when he opens a megastore around the corner from her shop. Meanwhile, their romance blossoms in the safe anonymity of their online correspondence.</p><p>Basically, a Rumbelle take on You've Got Mail, with dashes of Swanfire thrown in.</p><p>Nominated for Best Movie AU in the 2017 TEAs<br/>Nominated for Best Movie AU in the 2018 TEAs</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I am a long-time lurker/first-time publisher on this site. I thought no one had thought of this AU but then it turns out they did but they are either abandoned or for another couple so I thought, why not give it a shot?
> 
> Baelfire is not dead and never will be dead. Ever. I will go down with the good ship Swanfire.

_ Sept 25 _

_ From: Livreamour@gmail.com _

_ To: spinners_luck@gmail.com _

_ Have you ever had a moment when you woke up just knowing everything was going to be different from now on? A few times in my life I have. Three days after my mother’s funeral, that was one of them. Maybe it should have happened the day after her death, or the day of the funeral, that would have made more sense, but for me it was three days after. I woke up and I knew something was going to happen, and then I was making breakfast for me and my dad and I realized I’d toasted three bagels instead of two, and it just hit me all at once that I would never toast my mother a bagel ever again, and I had to sit and let the world spin around me for a couple of minutes. That was one of the bad times. There have been good times, too. _

_ Like today. I can’t explain it, but I just know something will happen today that will change the rest of my life. I guess I can’t know for sure it’ll be a good thing, but it will be something. I’ll read something interesting, or I’ll discover a new flavor of cheesecake, or I’ll make a new friend. Whatever it is, I can’t wait to find out. _

_ You know, most of the stuff that shows up in my inbox is absolute rubbish, but these days I can’t wait to wade through it all just on the chance that there will be a message from you, and then I see it:  _ [ _ spinners_luck@gmail.com _ ](mailto:goldeneye@gmail.com) _. And I smile and my fingers start to twitch because I simply can’t wait to read what you have to say and answer as fast as I can. _

_ Were you really in that chat room by accident? I’m finding it hard to believe. _

Sept 26

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com

To: Livreamour@gmail.com

I can’t say I have ever experienced that phenomenon, but that might be because I feel I’ve made the changes in my life, instead of simply having them happen to me. Fate, destiny, the stars, what have you, they don’t seem to affect me in the slightest. If they do, they haven’t made their machinations clear enough for me to give them the credit that is their due. That doesn’t seem to be the case for you, though, does it? These forces seem willing to share themselves with you in a way they won’t with me, and I can’t decide if I envy or admire you for it. It must be something special about you, mustn’t it? Perhaps you’re more to be trusted with premonitions and “vibes” than us lesser mortals who might try to turn those feelings to their own advantage, simply because you acknowledge the feeling and embrace what may come without reservation.

I do hope your premonition comes true in a positive way; meanwhile, I’ve translated that text you sent, and I’m attaching it to this email. It’s a lovely bit of prose, but I’m afraid it’s not quite what you were looking for. I noticed that you did not ask after it, but I know it was on your mind. 

It really was more a joke than an accident; a well-intentioned, optimistic joke, but a joke all the same. I can’t say I regret it, as the results have more than made up for any discomfort on my part. 

_ Sept 27 _

_ From: Livreamour@gmail.com _

_ To: spinners_luck@gmail.com _

_ Thank you for all your hard work on that translation. You’re right, it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but it’s still lovely. _

_ You say I appear amenable to the whims of fate, but lately I’ve been wondering if that’s a good thing. I live a very small life, really - happy and sweet and full of love, but small. When I was a girl I always wanted to see the world, to be a hero, to have grand adventures, and until my mother died I was certain that was what would happen. But with her went my means to travel, at least that was what I told myself. I’ve been wondering recently if, really, I just haven’t been brave. My mother used to say, “Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.” I wondered what she meant until I was faced with a huge choice: to do either the brave thing or the safe thing. _

_ I chose the safe thing. I’ve often wondered if that was the right choice, or if there  _ **_is_ ** _ such a thing as the right choice. Maybe there isn’t, and any choice you make is neutral by nature, and what makes it right or wrong is your response to the consequences. _

_ It’s nearly one and I know I’m babbling, but it’s your fault for being so easy to talk to. And I feel almost certain you’ll understand my nonsense even though it’s barely comprehensible even to me. Is it weird that I feel that way about you - that you understand me even when I don’t? _

 

Sept 28

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com

To: Livreamour@gmail.com

If it is weird, we can be weird together.

I know exactly what it is to make the safe choice instead of the brave one. You say you are happy in your life, that it is full and sweet; I wish I could say the same. My safe choice led to years of loneliness, guilt, turmoil, and recriminations. I’ve regretted that choice every single moment of my life, and I still regret it even though I’ve taken steps to rectify and reconcile. The problem with courage is that it requires a certain confidence in oneself and in one’s abilities to bear ill consequences, and that is an attribute I’ve never possessed.

It has been pointed out to me in the past that I seem to ruin things for myself on purpose to avoid being disappointed. It took years for me to realize that he was right, and while I’d like to say I’ve improved, I haven’t much. Perhaps my affinity for this anonymous, risk-free style of conversation is further proof of this failing of mine; I doubt you’d find me so easy to talk to in person. At best I’ve been called a grump, at worst words not fit for mixed company.

There’s something delightful about the not knowing, isn’t there? We are free to imagine ourselves and each other to be anything at all. Whether or not our true selves resemble our imaginative construction is utterly irrelevant, and I find that truth incredibly freeing.

If you would like to imagine me your dream man in every particular, of course, you have my permission.


	2. Chapter 1: The Story Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is NOT seeing someone. Gold doesn't really get his grandson's fascination with the Story Lady.

“Wow, Belle. Smile any wider and your face’ll split in two.”

Belle French ruthlessly fought down her grin and stared innocently at Ruby Lucas, who was busy opening the cash register for the day. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but the corners of her lips betrayed her and the smile crept back on her face.

“Sure you don’t.” Ruby straightened a pile of magazines. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”

“What? No! Of course not! I’m...I’m not even seeing anyone!” Ruby continued to stare until a blush bloomed and spread across Belle’s cheeks. “I’m  _ not _ !” Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Technically.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t be seeing someone I’ve never met,” Belle reasoned.

“Ooooh, an online romance! Have you exchanged pictures yet?”

“No - we agreed, no personal details. At first it was business - he’s been translating some of those old German texts for me - but we started chatting and it just sort of grew from there.”

“So he could be anyone. He could be the next person to walk in!”

The bell above the door tinkled and Jefferson Bucket, Belle’s best friend and right-hand man, bounded in.

“It could be Jeff,” Ruby hissed.

Belle laughed. “Trust me, it’s not. I’ve known Jeff since junior high and he can’t read anything besides English and French.”

Ruby shrugged and began shelving a shipment of mystery novels. “He could be using Google Translate or something. Maybe he’s been madly in love with you all his life and hasn’t had the guts to…” Ruby broke off in the face of Belle’s gasping, teary-eyed laughter. Jefferson had popped up beside Ruby while she wasn’t looking and he was grinning maniacally.

“That’s some theory,” he cackled. “Didn’t know I looked the type to lack guts.”

Huffing, Ruby stomped to the back of the store, and Belle, once she could breathe again, flipped the sign on the door to “Open.”

* * *

“The electrician hit a deer, so he won’t be in until tomorrow. The shelves are late because the shipment of pine had beetles. And there’s some question about whether we’re installing the stairs in the right spot.” Neal Gold paused for his father’s reaction.

“Fine, fine. All fine. Is the electrician here yet?”

“He hit a deer, Papa,” Neal huffed. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“Sure I have.”

“What did the electrician hit?”

Roderick Gold blinked and thought. “A deer.”

“Lucky guess. He’s okay, by the way.”

“Lucky,” Gold mused. “Favored by fate, perhaps. Or was there a choice involved there, do you think?”

“I’m, uh, pretty sure he didn’t choose to hit a deer.” Neal was staring at him. “Are you feeling alright?  _ You _ didn’t hit anything on the way in, right?”

“I’m fine. Absolutely...fine. Wonderful, even.”

Neal’s eyes almost fell out of his head. “Oh, my God. You’re in love.”

“What?” The pensive smile fled to be replaced by sheer terror. “No! Of course I’m not!”

“You haven’t been seeing someone on the sly, have you? Cause if you have I’m kind of hurt.”

“No, no, of course not. No. Not at all.”

Gold flushed when his son laughed aloud. “That was a lot of nos. Come on, Pops, who is she?”

Gold turned to pace the length of the store. “What did you say about the shelves? How soon they’ll be put up?”

“Not until we get some new pine, and not until the paint dries, and we can’t paint until the sheetrock dries, and that won’t be hung until the electrician is finished, and he won’t be in until tomorrow. So you might as well spill now. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?” Gold growled, turning to glare at his son. Neal shrugged, the power of the paternal glower having long faded.

“Otherwise, I’ll spy. And I’ll get Emma to help me.”

The thought of his tough-as-nails bail bondswoman of a daughter-in-law, with whom he had negotiated a peace born out of mutual respect and distrust, seeing his recent internet activity had Gold going pale. “That, uh, won’t be necessary. I’m really  _ not _ seeing anyone.” He held up a hand. “I can’t see someone I’ve never met.”

“Online, then. That chatroom Henry showed you actually worked out okay?”

Gold shrugged.

“Who is she? What does she do?”

“I don’t know who she is, but she’s a rare book dealer or something like that - we started talking when she sent me a few texts to translate. She’s smart. A bit whimsical. Sweet.”

“Sounds perfect for you,” Neal smiled a little wistfully. “You need to meet her. Anyone who makes you as happy as you’ve been the last couple of weeks has to be pretty special.”

“We agreed, son. We had a deal - no personal details, no meetings.”

“And Mr. Gold never breaks a deal.”

“Precisely.”

Neal shrugged. “Did you hear about Sleuth? The mystery bookstore down the road? They announced they’re closing this week.”

“Dreadful,” Gold drawled.

“The other one - Avonlea Books - we haven’t heard from them yet, and I have to say I kind of hope we don’t.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“It’s Henry’s favorite. He’s always wanting to go there. You know how much he loves books.”

“He’ll love this place, too.”

“Sure, but you won’t have the Story Lady.”

“The what?”

“Take him tomorrow. You’ll see.”

* * *

 

Avonlea Books, the green and gold sign proclaimed.

This, then, was his competition, if such it could be called. Roderick Gold studied the ancient facade, the slightly dusty windows, and the amateurish book displays. Frankly, he couldn’t see the appeal. If it weren’t for Henry’s insistence that he not miss a single session of The Story Lady, Roderick wouldn’t even have glanced at the storefront.

“Grandpa, come  _ on _ !” Henry whined, tugging at Gold’s free hand. “It’s gonna start soon!”

Gold swallowed a sigh and, leaning heavily on his cane, thumped up the steps to the door. Another point against the place - no wheelchair ramp. A small bell tinkled above the door as they entered and Henry released his hand, bounding off to the group of children gathered on the floor at the center of the shop.

Gold looked around him, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dimmer light. The shop was...well, it looked more like a personal library in someone’s very large house than a bookshop. Shelves, chairs, tables, and lamps were placed almost haphazardly, but as he took a walk about the perimeter he realized there was in fact method to the madness. The owner or decorator had created smaller libraries within the space, each cluster of furniture housing a distinct genre. He heard the children clap and cheer, and turned to see a slightly frumpy-looking older woman with severe black hair taking a seat in front of the throng of children. The Story Lady had apparently arrived, and until she began to read, he, once more, could not see the appeal. Her voice, though, was delightful, warm and rich with a distinct Australian accent, and her sweet smile belied the stern lines of her face. As he moved closer - he’d spotted a section near the desk labeled “rare books” - he recognized the story as the final chapter of  _ Mary Poppins _ . The children, he noticed, were rapt, hanging on every accented syllable. Gold listened with half an ear, his attention caught by a first edition of  _ Peter and Wendy _ , and he started a little when a man in a frock coat and top hat popped up beside him.

“Like it, sir?”

“What I can see of it.”

“First edition, mint condition,” the strange man all but sang. “Four hundred plus tax.”

Gold’s eyes narrowed. “That is an... _ extraordinarily  _ fair price.”

The man grinned. “You think so, huh?”

“If it’s in the condition you say it is, it could fetch a thousand at auction.”

The man continued to grin. “That’s an interesting bartering technique you’ve got there. I guess I could be persuaded to take a grand.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to buy it.”

“Ah. Got a little one listening to our famous Story Lady?”

“My grandson. He dragged me here.”

The man snorted. “Hope you’ll drag yourself back. Maybe we can find you a rare book you actually want to buy.”

Gold scanned the shelves. “I don’t suppose you have any Burns.”

“We might. I’ll have Belle talk to you when she’s done reading; these books are her darlings and she knows them back to front.”

Raucous applause erupted from the children, and Gold looked around to see that the crowd was dispersing. The Story Lady (Belle...what an unusual name) was tidying the area and Henry was running toward him.

“Gramps, can I look at the comic books?”

Gold checked his watch and nodded. “We have an hour ‘til we have to meet your parents for dinner. Don’t be too long.”

Henry ran off and Gold continued to search the shelves before him, growing ever closer to the door that led to the back of the shop. The Story Lady bustled past him, calling out over her shoulder.

“Jeff, a little help back here. Ruby, you’ve got the front.”

From his position beside the door, Gold could hear her bustling around and muttering to her coworker. He’d started to move away, but he’d actually spotted what he wanted up near the top of the shelf, and he’d have to wait until someone could help him.

“God, I am so glad to get rid of this stupid thing,” the Story Lady was grumbling amidst various rustling noises.

“It was your idea to read  _ Mary Poppins _ ,” Jeff answered mildly.

“I really wanted them to hear the original story; that awful Disney movie is  _ so _ watered down!”

“Well, now they’ve heard it and I’m sure they’ll never be the same. What’s next?”

“It’s just gone September, so I think it’ll be  _ Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone _ .” Apparently answering Jeff’s groan, she continued, “It's perfect for the Halloween season and it’s a huge draw, you know that.”

“I know. I guess I’d like it better if you’d dress up like Hermione.”

“Bugger off, Jeff,” she laughed. “You don’t get much more badass than McGonagall, and I’ve already got the tartan. You’ll just have to get your schoolgirl-fantasy jollies somewhere else.”

“Oh, by the way, there’s a, uh, guest asking about Burns in the rare books section. I figured I’d let you take a crack at him.”

There was a pause. “Oh?”

“Pretty sure he’s a Burns lover by birth as well as by choice.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll go help Ruby. You talk to Braveheart.”

Gold was sufficiently confused by the tail end of this conversation to have almost completely forgotten about the book that had caught his eye. He glanced back up at the shelves to make sure he could still locate it, and when he looked down he found himself being regarded by the most remarkably blue eyes he’d ever seen, set in a face so beautiful he almost forgot to breathe.

“Hi!” she chirped with a smile, and Gold realized from his instant recognition of her voice that this woman, unbelievable as it may be, was the Story Lady. That had been some disguise. “I understand you’re looking for something particular.”

“Oh. Um. Yes. Burns.”

“He’s up near the top. Hang on, I’ll get a ladder.” She whirled away and he noticed dizzily that she wore a full-skirted dress that fell just above her knees and peep-toe pumps at least three inches tall. Jesus, how could she walk in shoes like those, let alone zip around the store as she was doing? She was back with a ladder almost immediately, set it carefully against the shelves, and, to his alarm, began to climb. Those shoes  _ must _ be impairing her balance, he thought. She was going to fall. And if she didn’t, she was about to give him a downright indecent view of her legs. He looked down and studied the carpet. Then he peeked up a time or two. He’d never claimed to be a saint, after all.

When she was safely back on solid ground - and while he was still negotiating his heart back to a somewhat normal rhythm (her legs were  _ incredible _ ) - she gingerly held out the collection of poems that had caught his eye.

“Not quite a first edition, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically, “but it’s in excellent condition.”

He flipped through the pages and saw that she was right. The price penciled inside the cover was also more than fair. Now to convince his mouth and tongue to make words again, and to arrange those words into sentences. Both seemed to have forgotten how to do so.

“It’s, uh…it’s lovely.”

Her smile brightened considerably. “I thought so too. I’m glad you like it. Should I wrap it up for you?”

“Uh, yes. Absolutely.” She took the book from him with another grin and turned to lead him to one of the registers. Just as they were reaching the counter and he was beginning to feel mildly comfortable again - and had actually worked out a few charming sentences with which he could improve his image - Henry popped up out of nowhere, holding out an Avengers comic.

“Can I get this one, Grandpa? I haven’t read it yet.”

He loved his grandson dearly, but he would have preferred him to stay far, far away in the children’s section until it was time to leave. Belle eyed the two of them with confusion, then with realization. Gold hadn’t realized how much he would have liked to at least  _ try _ to chat up the gorgeous young shopkeep until that option had been brutally yanked from him by his own progeny.

“I’ve seen you around before, haven’t I?” Belle asked Henry, smiling widely. “Don’t you come to every Story Lady session?”

“Yeah! I liked  _ Mary Poppins, _ but I thought  _ The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe _ was more exciting.”

“It is, a bit. Maybe after  _ Harry Potter _ we can read another of the Narnia books. They’re all pretty amazing.”

“Man, I _love_ _Harry Potter!_ ” Henry exclaimed. “Grandpa does too, except he doesn’t like to admit it.”

“Is that so?” Belle smirked, catching Gold’s eye.

Gold shrugged, trying for nonchalance and, probably, failing utterly. “I certainly  _ don’t _ like admitting it, so I never do.”

Henry laughed, then sneezed loudly. “Oops. Do you have any tissues?”

“‘Fraid not. Here.” Belle handed him a linen handkerchief and Gold wondered if it really was possible to fall in love at first sight.

“What’s this?” Henry asked, studying the piece of fabric.

“It’s a handkerchief - don’t children know what handkerchiefs are? It’s a tissue you never throw away.” She leaned over the counter and showed him the embroidery. “My mother made this for me, see? My name and three roses - roses are my favorite flower - one for each of the people in my family.” She glanced up at Gold through her lashes. “Ladies also used to give handkerchiefs to gentlemen they fancied as a token of their favor.”

“Who did you say you were again?” Gold asked, the words dragged from him as if by magic.

“I’m Belle French, the proprietor of Avonlea Books,” she smiled. “And you are?”

“Roderick. Just call me Roderick,” he said quickly. “We’ll take the comic book and the Burns, please.”

Jeff had popped up behind Belle and was grinning widely at him. “You’re going to come again, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Gold stammered, trying to keep his hands still.

“See, this is why we have nothing to worry about.” Jeff wagged a scolding finger at Belle as if they were mid-argument. “Our customers are loyal.”

Belle leaned across the counter again. “They’re opening a Goldleaf Books around the corner.”

“Goldleaf!” Henry exclaimed. “Hey, that’s…”

“The large discount store, yes, we all know that,” Gold said hastily. “Henry, why don’t you go read your comic book. Over there.” Henry stared at him strangely and Gold fluttered a hand at him. “Go on.” With a troubling little smile and a glance at Belle, Henry shrugged and meandered off to a chair. Oh, Gold would pay for this later. His grandson was much too clever for his own good. Gold’s own good, that was.

“The world is not driven by discounts,” Belle said fervently, carefully wrapping the Burns in brown paper. “I’ve been in business since I was a child - I used to help my mother here when I was only six, and she taught me everything she knew about books and stories and words. Books are more than just stories told; they’re stories  _ lived _ . Introducing someone to a new book is like introducing them to a new friend, a friend that can teach them new things, show them new places, create sensations they never dreamed of and pass on wisdom they might never have gained otherwise. And reading for children is so important - our childhood books help to shape and define us. Books are...books are  _ magical _ , and…” She trailed off in the face of Gold’s bemused silence. “And I’ve gotten a bit carried away.”

“A bit, yes. It’s no matter.” He smiled and reached for his billfold, and a picture on a shelf behind her caught his eye. “Your mother, I suppose?” he asked, gesturing at the photo.

“Yes. She left the store to me, and I’ll pass it on to my daughter when it’s time.”

Well, of course she had a family. Of course she had a handsome, strapping husband and a little girl with eyes like the sky after rain. There was no reason for Gold’s heart to drop down to his stomach. “How, ah, how old is your daughter now?”

She stared wide-eyed at him for a second and then laughed. “Oh! Oh, I don’t have a daughter yet. I’m not married. But someday.”

Surely he wasn’t imagining the little sparkle in her eyes and the inviting curl to her lips. At any other time, and with any other woman, this would be his cue to ask her to coffee or dinner. The words were actually burning in his throat. But he knew she would eventually find out who he was, and then the sparkle would dim and the smile would die and it would all have been for nothing. So he remained silent while Belle rang up their purchases. 

Henry, at Gold’s look and gesture, rejoined them, and his eyes grew round when he heard the total. “Jesus, Gramps, what did you buy?”

“Language, Henry,” Gold said sternly, then explained. “It’s a rare book by Robbie Burns, my favorite poet.”

“Oh, poetry. No one understands that stuff.”

“Sure they do,” Belle said, “but sometimes it takes a little getting used to.”

“Is Burns your favorite, too?” Henry asked.

“No, though he’s definitely in my top five. I prefer William Blake.”

Henry looked blank.

“Next time I’ll show you some,” Belle said, “or your grandpa can.” She handed Gold his paper bag. “I hope to see you again soon,” she said.

He smiled uneasily back and followed his grandson out of the shop. So much for fantasizing about her legs and thinking up clever lines: he was about to put that breathtaking, Burns-reading brunette firmly out of business. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.


	3. Chapter 2: Snark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold is a bit of a bastard. Belle's penpal suggests something that throws her for a loop.

“Ok, serious discussion time,” Jefferson said. “We have to talk about Goldleaf.”

The business day was over and the three of them were holding a pow-wow to discuss their strategy for staying afloat once the discount bookstore moved in. Jefferson had recommended whiskey for this little meeting, but Belle had insisted on tea. They were all still technically on the clock. After the meeting, they could all go out and get blitzed if they wished.

“It’ll be fine,” Ruby said, smiling confidently. “Sure, they sell almost at cost, but they don’t have this place’s charm and ambience, they don’t have our collection of rare books, and they definitely don’t have the Story Lady.”

“Charm, ambience, rare books, and Story Ladies don’t pay the bills, Rubes,” Jefferson pointed out.

“No, but they create return business. Like that cute little kid with the hot grandpa who was in here this afternoon. Right, Belle?”

Belle blushed. “Yeah, thanks for that, Jeff. You couldn’t have told me his grandson was in the store?”

“Slipped my mind.”

“Uh huh.”

“What, are you upset that I sent you to talk to the handsome Scotsman while I sold a ridiculous number of comic books?”

Belle rolled her eyes. “ _Anyway_ , back to this Goldleaf problem. What are we going to do?”

“More advertisement, obviously, and maybe some community outreach,” Ruby said briskly. “Book drives, tutoring services, reading workshops, that kind of thing.”

“Puppet shows,” Jeff contributed. “Writers’ workshops.”

“Okay, good. I’ll do some research and figuring and get back to you all on Tuesday,” Belle sighed, snapping her notebook closed. “Enjoy your weekends!”

After she had flipped the little sign to closed and turned the key in the lock, Belle sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. They were good ideas, all of them, but they required capital, and the store was doing well, but not so well that it could fund a host of new programs. She needed a way to draw interest in Avonlea Books without spending thousands on advertising, and she quite frankly had no idea how to do that.

Her grandmother’s cuckoo clock chimed the hour and Belle started. Ariel would never forgive her for being late to this particular party, not when her friend had worked so hard and been through so much to publish her newest book of reworked fairy tales. Ariel was scheduled to hold a signing at Avonlea Books, so that would definitely draw in some potential new customers. And there would be important people at this party - other authors, editors, publishers - there must be someone who could help with her predicament, who valued independent bookshops over discount superstores and appreciated good books for their own sake. Yes, this party was a prime opportunity, as well as a chance to catch up with a good friend, and she was determined to enjoy herself.

* * *

Gold cursed under his breath when he caught sight of those tumbling auburn curls across the room. He’d managed to avoid giving himself away at the bookstore, but there was no way he’d manage it here, surrounded by the literati. How he’d allowed Mallory to coerce him into coming here he’d never know. Neal and Emma would have accepted his excuses no problem, even let him babysit Henry instead, but Mal had _insisted._ God, he hated parties.

Of course, babysitting Henry wouldn't have been particularly comfortable this evening, either. The instant they were out of the bookshop, Henry had turned on him with an almost predatory smile and asked, "Why didn't you want Miss French to know you own Goldleaf Books?"

"Who said I didn't?"

"You practically shoved me across the room when she mentioned it."

"Did not."

"Do you think she's pretty?"

"No." Only a half-lie.  _Pretty_ didn't even come close to describing her.

Henry scoffed. "Right. That's why you were staring at her the whole time, I was watching."

"You should have been reading."

"I can do both."

Gold sighed and ruffled his hair. "Don't you ever get tired of outsmarting an old man?"

"Nope."

So, yes, in the moment it had seemed a good idea to avoid his grandson's questions and hints, but standing now in a room with the woman herself and trying to avoid her notice, he would give anything to be back in his son's living room trying to distract Henry with ice cream and superhero movies.

“Be a dear, Roddy, and fetch me another vodka tonic,” Mallory crooned, jolting him back to the present. "These shoes are divine but murder on my feet."

He glared at her incredulously. "I only have one foot that works properly, and you're complaining about your own choice of footwear?"

She smiled. "Didn't the doctor say exercise was good for your ankle?"

"Walking from here to the bar isn't exactly exercise, dearie."

"Every little bit helps."

“Why couldn’t Ella come with you again?” he grumbled.

“She’s in Tokyo, kicking ass and taking names, remember? But I’ll give her your regards.” She wiggled the glass. “Vodka?”

Grunting, he handed her his own half-full glass, limped to the bar, barked the order to the barkeep and turned to see that he was being closely examined by the eyes that were sure to start haunting his dreams. Belle French. She’d cornered him. Bloody wonderful.

“Hello again!” she said cheerfully.

His gut twisted because she obviously still had no idea who he was. If she had, she would never in a million years have come up to him, let alone smiled so brilliantly or chirped at him so happily.

“You remember me, right? From Avonlea Books? Belle French?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And you’re Roderick. I never did catch your last name.”

“Excuse me, my date is…” and Gold scurried away, hoping he’d been rude enough to depress any further overtures. Resisting the temptation to look over his shoulder, he shoved Mal's drink into her hand and retrieved his own, taking a steadying gulp.

“Who’s that?” Mal asked, her eyes gleaming.

“Who’s who?”

“That gorgeous young thing you ran away from like she was threatening to cut off your hair.”

“Nobody.”

“You don’t usually run from nobodies.”

“Drink your vodka, woman.”

Mal snorted. “I can drink and nose at the same time.” As if to prove her point, she raised her glass to her lips and made a beeline for Belle.

“No, Mal, don’t…” But she grinned over her shoulder at him and touched Belle lightly on the arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he heard her purr. “I mistook you for someone else. I saw you talking to Roderick Gold and thought you were...well, never mind.”

“Gold?” Belle squeaked, and Gold tried to duck behind a potted plant when her eyes quested around the room. “As in…”

“Goldleaf Books, yes. You didn’t know?”

“No, I - excuse me…” Gold knew the instant she’d spotted him, but he tried to weave his way to the buffet table. His particular disability combined with the crush of the party made escape impossible, though, and in a moment Belle had planted herself in his path.

“Mr. Gold,” she snapped.

He twirled one hand in a little bow. “In the flesh.”

“You tricked me.”

“Did I?”

“You didn’t tell me who you were.”

“Yes, I did.”

“‘Just call me Roderick,’” she mimicked.

“I’m not obligated to reveal my curriculum vitae to every shopkeep who asks my name.”

Belle huffed. “No, of course you’re not _obligated_ to, and why would you ever do more than you’re obligated to do, even for the sake of professional courtesy?”

“I owe you that, do I?”

“As I’m your competition, I would think so. Now I have to assume you were spying on me.”

“My competition! Yes, I wake every morning quaking in my boots that perhaps today is the day that Avonlea Books puts Goldleaf squarely out of business. This quaint little shop that makes up with charm what it lacks in profits, and naively imagines that will be enough to get by. This floundering little nothing of a store, relying on loyalty and sentimentality in an increasingly cut-throat market. Yes, Miss French, with all this in mind, it’s glaringly obvious that my superstore is in imminent danger from your _competition_.”

Belle stared at him, her luminous eyes wide and radiating disappointment and dismay. “I’ve heard of you, too, you know,” she said softly. “They call you all sorts of names - wolf, crocodile, beast - and I was always sure the stories were exaggerated. It’s my firm belief that you can’t know what’s in a person’s heart until you know them. When I saw your store moving in I hoped I’d get a chance to learn the truth. I guess I just did.” She reached out to set her wine glass on a table; despite her calm words and voice, her hands were trembling. She met his eyes again. “You really are as dark as people say.” Turning, she walked back into the crowd, and Gold was left to clench his hands on his cane and wonder why the usual grim pleasure of having depressed impertinence was eluding him.

“Heavens, that kitten has claws,” Mal observed next to him. "Met your match, have you?"

“Shut up, Mal,” he grumbled, and tossed back the rest of his whiskey.

Late that night, the image of Belle French’s sorrowful eyes was still burned into his mind, and he simply couldn’t sleep. He’d never fretted over his unsavory reputation before, but as he recalled his words and his unnecessary vitriol, he was hit with a rare wave of remorse. With a heavy sigh Gold threw aside the blankets and lurched painfully toward the computer. If anyone could lend him an ear, it would be his intriguing internet contact.

Sept 30 

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com 

To: Livreamour@gmail.com 

Have you ever revealed the worst part of yourself at the worst possible moment? As if everything spiteful and angry and vengeful in your soul came flying out of you at once? Not in a wild spray either, but a concentrated dose of hateful poison coating a perfectly aimed arrow that pierced your opponent’s defences with deadly accuracy. And when it was all over, you removed your opponent’s armor to discover there was no danger after all and you’ve destroyed something sweet and gentle. Ripped a lamb to shreds for no reason other than to display your own power. 

You can see I wasn’t joking when I told you your beliefs of me were unique. I’ve no idea now how to atone - or if I should even bother. 

Having poured out a bit of his soul, his body felt less restless, and Gold was able to sleep. In the morning, he discovered that his friend must have had a sleepless night, too, because her reply had been written a mere hour after his message.

_Sept 30_

_From: Livreamour@gmail.com_

_To: spinners_luck@gmail.com_

_I’ve noticed that, when it comes to other people, we all tend to give ourselves too much credit. I won’t dare suggest that you weren’t as harsh or cruel as you think you were, because I wasn’t there. I can guess, though, that you might not have utterly destroyed your opponent. People are stronger than we think; unless that person is utterly friendless, hopeless, and fragile, he will bounce back. As for atoning, only that person can tell you how to do so, and he can’t do that until you’ve apologized. Apologies are_ **_always_ ** _worth the effort._

_I’ve recently been on the receiving end of a tongue-lashing I don’t feel I deserved, but I know a sincere apology would go a long way. I don’t know what that person’s experience has been to make him think his behavior was at all appropriate. I just know I couldn’t have been the sole cause of his viciousness. I don’t need explanations or atonement - a simple “I’m sorry” would do the trick. I’m willing to bet your “victim” feels the same way._

_Rarely have I ever wished for that particular talent with words that cuts people off at the knees, but oh, tonight, I did. I feel I held my own, but I couldn't manage the cold detachment I needed. I probably came off weak and emotional, which is frustrating because my blood was simply boiling. Perhaps you can teach me your ways._

He smiled a little sadly and sent his reply.

Sept 30 

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com 

To: Livreamour@gmail.com 

Be careful what you wish for. I think you’ll find, when you do have that opportunity to say exactly the right words to bring your opponent to his knees, that remorse is instantaneous. 

Roderick paused, his fingers twitching over the keyboard. Neal’s words echoed in his skull and he willed the sentence into existence.

Do you think we should meet? 

He sent the message, closed the browser, and then turned off his laptop and closed it, too, for good measure. He would not check his inbox again for twenty-four hours. He could wait that long for a response, surely, assuming that she did respond and he hadn’t scared her away for good. His skin fairly humming with anticipation, he prepared for his day and left for the job site.

* * *

 

Belle stared open-mouthed at the screen. “Meet?” she whispered. “Oh my God.” Hastily she shut the laptop and stepped away from it, her head awhirl. Meet. She wanted to, very badly, but...they’d agreed, hadn’t they? And she had so much going on - Ariel’s signing and the tutoring to arrange, and - she didn’t have time, did she? No, of course she didn’t, and it had nothing to do with the fact that her heartbeat sped up when she saw his address in her inbox, or that she would rather reread his messages than talk to just about anyone she knew. She was _not_ falling in love with someone sight unseen.

“He wants to meet me,” Belle blurted the second there was a lull in business that day. Ruby and Jefferson were instantly before her, leaning across the counter with twin expressions of rapt fascination on their faces.

“Are you going to?” Ruby asked breathlessly.

“Of course not! It’s...it’s creepy, right? He could be a serial killer!”

“Or he could be your true love,” Ruby argued.

“Or both,” Jefferson mused. Both women stared at him. “What? Serial killers need love too.”

“Whatever. Belle, you should go. For real - you’ve been mooning over this guy for weeks.”

Belle was spared having to answer by a rush of customers. She ducked her employees’ questions for the rest of the day, and prepared for the Story Lady hour with relish. When little Henry appeared Belle held her breath, hoping desperately that one of his parents was with him instead of his grandfather. The pretty blonde woman who entered behind him was familiar - she’d brought Henry before - and Belle breathed a sigh of relief.

When the story hour was over, Belle emerged from the back room to find herself face-to-face with the woman who’d come in with Henry.

“You’re Belle, right?” the woman asked, and Belle nodded warily. “I’m Emma Gold, Henry’s mom.” She held out a hand and Belle shook it. “We’ve been in before, but I wanted to meet you and let you know that not all of Henry’s relatives are snarky bastards.”

“Oh.” Belle let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “Oh, that’s...that’s nice of you, I suppose, but...I mean, I didn’t think…how did you…?”

“I was there. I didn’t hear what he said, but some other people did and they were kind of...anyway, Henry wanted to come to hear the beginning of _Harry Potter_ and he asked Pops to take him and he said he didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“He was probably right. Not that I would have thrown him out or anything.”

Emma fidgeted a little. “Look, I know this is really nosy of me, but...you’re doing okay, right? The store, I mean. Henry just loves it here and I’d hate it if…”

“We’re doing fine. Just fine,” Belle smiled. “We have some new programs in the works. I’m hoping we can have a very amicable book district here. If Goldleaf doesn’t have it, we will, and vice versa. It’ll all work out fine.”

“Oh, that’s good. Really, that’s great to hear. I know some of the other shops around here had to close up, and I’m so happy this isn’t one of them.”

“Of course it’s not.” Belle’s face was beginning to ache from all the smiling. “If you’ll excuse me, I…”

“Oh, sure! Sorry. It was great to meet you.”

The rush was dying down and Belle could tell from her employees' expressions that they wanted to revisit the subject of meeting her penpal, so she put in her earbuds and buried herself in the books in the office, pretending not to hear or notice whenever one of them came in to needle her. Miraculously her hearing returned when they needed help at the register or finding a book for a customer, but otherwise she was engrossed in the store's finances and programs.

Strange though it had been, her conversation with Emma Gold had given Belle renewed energy. It had been proof positive that she had loyal customers who wanted her store to succeed, and she returned home that night ready to tackle new programs and schedules. In between phone calls with vendors and drawing up of budgets, Belle stole glances at her laptop and felt warm at the thought of her online admirer. His wanting to meet her must mean that he liked her. Maybe even _liked_ liked her.

It was official. The internet turned everyone into middle schoolers.

She still wasn’t sure meeting was a good idea, because she really was incredibly busy, but she didn’t want him to think he’d weirded her out or anything, so when her work was done she sat down to explain. 

_Sept 30_

_From: Livreamour@gmail.com_

_To: spinners_luck@gmail.com_

_There is so much happening in my day-to-day right now - changes big and small and terrifying and exciting, and part of what keeps me grounded is this beautiful little cyberspace oasis we’ve created together. Talking with you is the highlight of my days in part because you can’t know or care about any of the things that whirl about me. So, no, dear friend, I don’t think it’s a good idea to meet. I’m very flattered that you asked, though._

She signed off with a sigh and a little itch of doubt near the back of her brain. Her reasons for wanting to avoid a meeting were sound, she felt, and she knew for a fact that he would understand and respect her decision. Some part of her wondered, however, if she was once again choosing the safe choice over the brave one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and support, everyone! When I posted the prologue and first chapter I was fluctuating wildly between "If no one likes it, whatever," and "IF THEY HATE IT I WILL DIE OF SHAME," but so far it doesn't look like death is in the cards for me. Thank heavens.


	4. Chapter 3: Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a kerfuffle in a grocery store, and Avonlea Books holds a Halloween book drive/party. Gold and Belle seem to take two steps toward each other and six giant flying leaps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long. Really long. Like, this chapter alone is as long as both previous chapters. I couldn't find a good place to stop and it just kept going and going until it was this monster. Sorry? You're welcome? Not sure which sentiment is appropriate here.

_So, no, dear friend, I don’t think it’s a good idea to meet. I’m very flattered that you asked, though._

Gold sighed, and he wasn’t sure what exactly that sigh expressed. Disappointment? Relief? Agreement? Hell if he knew. The store was almost ready to open, and they’d had none of the pushback from the neighborhood that he’d expected: no petitions, no picket lines, no enraged letters to the editor. Nothing. It was almost as if everyone was perfectly thrilled Goldleaf had decided to build a store there.

The second week of October came, and Goldleaf Books opened for business. There was a dignified ribbon-cutting ceremony, attended by a respectable number of new patrons lined up outside the doors, ready to be wooed with cheap books and comfortable chairs and cappuccinos, and Gold strolled the main floor with his son and, for once, felt pleased with himself. Ruthless businessman he might be, but he provided goods and services people _wanted_.

“It’s going great, Papa,” Neal said, clapping a hand on Gold’s shoulder. “They love us. They can’t get enough.”

“It’s a refreshing change,” Gold agreed. “I’m used to torches and pitchforks.”

“Well, you were less of a jerk this time around. The neighborhood doesn’t feel like you want to pave paradise and put up a parking lot.”

Gold shrugged uneasily. He hadn’t been a jerk to _most_ people, and he still hadn’t worked up the nerve to apologize to the one person he had been a jerk to. He was starting to think maybe he could simply avoid her. Forever. Besides, he didn’t need her to like him. Neal, Emma, Henry, and Livreamour all liked him, and he didn’t need any more people than that. In fact, just a few years ago, if someone had told him he’d have four people who enjoyed talking to him, he wouldn’t have believed that someone.

Livreamour continued to be adorable, and he continued to wish that she’d decided to meet him. They’d agreed not to reveal personal details, but he’d found himself dropping little breadcrumbs in his emails, hoping she’d glean some personal information in spite of herself. He wanted her to know him, and if he had to stealthily reveal himself bit by bit that was what he’d do. Her latest email had mentioned Halloween, and he hadn’t been able to resist some Scottish name-dropping.

Ah, Oidhche Shamnha. It’s a gruesome time of year, isn’t it? I’ll no doubt be growling the wee beasties away from my door and praying my car doesn’t get egged again. 

In truth, Halloween was proving to be stressful this year. Avonlea Books was hosting a Halloween Party - proceeds to go to some children’s charity or other - and Henry was absolutely wild to go, but Neal and Emma had accepted invitations to a costume party weeks ago. Gold had agreed to watch Henry well before he’d known of the party, or even the bookstore and its beguiling proprietor. He was going to see her again after avoiding her for nearly three weeks, and he still wasn’t sure if he ought to apologize. Livreamour thought he should, but she was charming and sweet and sincere, and people probably forgave her all the time. Gold didn’t have much experience with being forgiven.

Three days before Halloween, he was working himself into a nice little state of panic as he shopped for Halloween candy and tried to believe that everything would go just fine at the party and probably Miss French would be too busy hosting to even realize he was there. He soothed himself by buying extra of his favorite chocolates. There weren’t many children in his building, and very few of them dared venture up to the penthouse, but he would be ready for those who did. He’d been standing patiently and not very observantly in a particularly slow line at the registers - a few new lines had opened up since he’d joined but he’d been in this line long enough that he felt oddly committed to seeing it through to the end - when a commotion at the next register over drew his notice.

A young woman pushing one child in a stroller and clinging to the hand of another was turning red-faced with shame as the cashier ran her card, only to have it declined. If the restlessness of the other patrons was any indication, this was not the first attempt. The woman removed a few items from her small pile of Halloween goodies and asked to try again, but the card was still rejected.

“What is she doing buying candy she can’t afford, anyway?” grumped the next man in line. The woman had clearly heard him; a few tears trickled down her cheek and Gold felt an unaccustomed sting of pity. He’d been that humiliated parent, after all, scraping together enough to give his boy an enjoyable holiday. The increased ire of his fellow customers was beginning to needle him and, just as he decided he ought to _do_ something, a whirl of auburn curls had dashed to the front of the line.

“God, sis, I’m _so_ sorry,” she cried.

The young mother blinked and opened her mouth to reply but her “sister” appeared to be a bit of a bulldozer. “I was in the bathroom, sorry, thanks for holding my place, you know I can’t live without chocolate.” The woman effortlessly slid her card through the machine. “You weren’t trying to pay for me? That was sweet.” She grabbed the receipt and began herding the little family out of the line, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, and Gold’s heart jumped a little when he recognized the impossible blue of Belle French’s eyes. He tried to smile at her, but he noticed her dismayed gaze had drifted past him - he doubted she’d even recognized him - and landed on an abandoned cart of groceries at the end of his own line.

Gold didn’t even think twice. He left his place in the line, collected the cart, and moving into one of the more enthusiastic lines was able to purchase his own and her groceries. He was almost out of the store when Miss French came flying back in, nearly colliding with the cart.

“Excuse me, I...oh!”

Picking up his own bag, Gold gestured to her cart and stepped back. She was staring at him as if he’d turned green.

“You...bought my groceries? You didn’t have to do that, I was coming back.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I hope your, ah, sister didn’t forget anything.”

A blush suffused her cheeks. “I - I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

“Of course you couldn’t. As it happens, neither could I.” He held her eyes and allowed himself a small, sincere smile. “Good day, Miss French.”

* * *

Everything was fine, Belle repeated to herself every day over the next week or so. Goldleaf Books had opened just around the corner, and it seemed that more and more customers were visiting it every day, but everything was fine. She was fine. The store was fine.

Fine. _Fine._

 _Just fine_.

God, she wished she hadn't let Gold's words rattle her so much. Every time she looked at the numbers she saw his sneering face and heard his words again, positively dripping with scorn. He'd dismissed her mother's store as nothing when he knew it was her mother's legacy. When the other bookshop owners in the area had described their encounters with him, she hadn't believed anyone could be so heartless; when she'd read online articles and she'd noticed there was always a mention about the overall nastiness of the CEO, she had thought perhaps he was prickly or opinionated. She'd even had some thoughts of setting up a meeting after his store opened, introducing herself, and proposing the sort of mutually beneficial business relationship she'd described to his daughter-in-law; perhaps he was only prickly because no one gave him a chance to be otherwise.

Well, her eyes were opened. He had reduced her beloved shop to a failing scrapheap with a few well-chosen words, and now he had her chewing her lips until they were chapped, skipping meals, and using the word "fine" so often she thought she would scream if she had to say it once more.

She was muttering under her breath as she studied the store’s books the night of the Halloween party when Jefferson sighed next to her. Belle jumped. She hadn’t even heard him enter the office; how did he _do_ that? Could he teleport?

“No change?” he asked.

“No change,” Belle sighed. “Not even a little bit. I just don’t understand. All the activities we’ve done and there isn’t the smallest increase in business.”

“Have you heard from Ariel yet? We were supposed to finalize the date for her book signing, and that’ll be good for traffic.”

“I haven’t, which seems odd. I’ll email her again tonight.”

“The party tonight should bring in some business, too, and everyone will be impressed with our charitable outreach.” He stepped behind her and began to massage her shoulders. Belle groaned, dipping her head forward to allow him access to her neck.

“I know, you’re right. I just wish…”

Someone knocked on the side of the archway that separated the office from the store - they’d never got around to installing a door - and Belle looked up to see Mr. Gold standing there, his face unreadable.

“We’re closed,” she said automatically, “opening in two hours for the party.”

“Yes...ah...forgive me, but the door was unlocked, and…” his gaze flicked to Jefferson, whose hands were still on her shoulders. “I wondered if I could have a moment of your time, Miss French.”

Belle shrugged and nodded, and Jefferson flitted away, smirking at Gold as he slipped past him. It was on the tip of Belle’s tongue to ask if he was here for his money back; she was determined, however, not to be rude, not in her mother’s store, where she always felt Colette’s presence the strongest. Colette would be horrified if she knew some of the scathing words Belle wanted to fling at the beast. He didn’t look particularly beast-like at the moment, though, with his hand fidgeting on his cane and his eyes not quite meeting hers.

“What can I do for you?” she asked finally when he gave no sign of speaking.

“I wished to extend my apologies for my words to you at Miss Delmar’s party,” he said at last.

“O...kay,” Belle hesitated. “That was weeks ago. Why apologize now?”

He stilled his hands and straightened his shoulders. “I’m a busy man, dearie.”

Belle narrowed her eyes and leveled a look at him that had caused rambunctious children to quake in their boots; she smothered a grin when his shoulders hunched a smidge and he glanced away. “Try again.”

“I’m bringing Henry to the party tonight,” he admitted after a pause, “and my son and daughter-in-law _recommended_ ,” with a rueful grin, “that I attempt to mend fences with you so that he doesn’t feel uncomfortable.”

“I see.”

"Furthermore," and he seemed to take a deep breath, "my words were harsh and uncalled for. I regret showing you such disrespect."

She noticed he didn't say they were  _untrue_. It was clear that he didn't regret the sentiments, only the expression of them, but it wasn't fair to expect him to apologize for the way he thought. He looked and sounded sincere enough, and she waited in silence for the promised apology.

After a few more seconds of silence Mr. Gold sighed. “Do you accept, dearie?”

“Accept what?”

“My apology!” he sounded a little annoyed, and Belle suppressed a smile.

“I don’t know. You haven’t offered one yet.”

“I…” Mr. Gold looked dumbfounded.

Belle crossed her arms. “Well?” He stared at her, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Belle almost giggled. “Are the words ‘I’m sorry’ really that hard for you to say?”

“I don’t have much practice with them.”

“Really.” Belle allowed her voice to thicken with sarcasm.

Gold huffed what might have been a laugh. “I’m sorry,” he finally mumbled.

“Apology accepted,” Belle said brightly.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He eyed her doubtfully. “You wouldn’t prefer…”

“What? Tears and grovelling? A bit of self-flagellation?” Belle shook her head. “You don’t seem like someone who says things he doesn’t mean. I’ll take you at your word. The apology is good enough for me.”

There was a strange flicker of light in Gold’s eyes, but it was doused almost immediately. “Well. Thank you, Miss French.”

“I’ll see you at the party.”

“Right, yes. ‘Til then.”

He disappeared as silently as he'd entered, and Belle shook her head to clear it. Had anyone else reported receiving an apology from the wolf of the book district? He'd seemed, in those last few moments, much more like the charmingly shy gentleman she'd met in September and again in the grocery than the ruthless businessman she'd encountered at Ariel's. Which was the real Mr. Gold? And could he please have the decency to look a little less gorgeous when she knew she was starting to resemble a bridge troll?

* * *

Henry was so excited he couldn’t even speak, as was evident by his little squeaking attempts at conversation that stopped after only a couple of words, as well as by the way he was bouncing on the balls of his feet down the sidewalk. The cape of his Batman costume fluttered in the breeze and he was clutching the gently-used storybooks they had scrounged up for their entry fee as if they were about to flap their covers and fly away. All proceeds from this little book drive were going to a local impoverished elementary school to augment its library, and Gold was impressed by the idea: its originality and its altruism. The only way the bookshop would benefit was by proxy - good publicity and perhaps increased traffic - and it was still running the party at an expense. It was a risky gamble, and Gold appreciated risky gambles, even if he rarely took them himself.

Since his visit two hours ago the little bookshop had been transformed, the window displays showcasing tombstones; he chuckled at some of the names. Dee Capitated. I.M. Wormfood. Clever, that. When they entered the dimly-lit shop, he saw that most of the lights had been fitted with red and green bulbs and most of the furniture had been cleared away; cobwebs hung from the ceiling and in every corner, and several games had been set up around the store. In the corner nearest the door, a long rope had been strung up and several cookies dangled from it on strings; the shopgirl, Ruby, dressed fetchingly in a long hooded red cape, was supervising five youngsters as they “bobbed” for cookies. In another corner a dark-haired woman Gold hadn’t seen before was wearing battle armor and running a ring-toss game. At a long, black-clothed table an elderly woman was handing out snacks, and a bearded man in a pointed dwarf’s cap and a pretty woman in a fairy costume oversaw what appeared to be an arts-and-crafts table.

“This is _so cool_ , Gramps!” Henry whispered, carefully placing his books in the box by the door. “What should I do first?”

“Welcome!” a slightly manic voice called, and Henry turned around with wide eyes as Jefferson bounded up to them, purple velvet frock coat flapping and comically oversized top hat tipping precariously to one side. “So glad you could make it, come on in, plenty of fun to be had!”

“Who are you supposed to be?” the boy asked.

“Well, I’ll give you a hint,” Jefferson bent down to look Henry in the eye. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Huh?”

Gold rolled his eyes. “Because it can produce a few notes, though they are very flat, and it is never put with the wrong end in front.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Henry said, eyeing his grandfather doubtfully.

“Nothing makes sense in Wonderland!” Jefferson proclaimed. “We’re all mad here.”

“That was the Cheshire Cat,” Gold corrected, and the Mad Hatter roared with laughter. Now looking slightly fearful as well as confused, Henry edged away from the two of them and made for the snack table.

“So you’re a Carroll fan as well as a Burns aficionado?” Jefferson asked when he’d caught his breath.

Fixing him with an icy stare, Gold pointed out, “I do own several large bookstores, dearie.”

“Sure. All owners of superstores are conversant in Victorian children’s literature and recall Carroll’s own suggested answer to an unanswerable riddle.” Jefferson looked him up and down. “You’re a dark horse, Gold.”

Gold was spared a reply by a small blonde projectile dressed in a wide blue dress, white apron, and black headband that launched itself at Jefferson’s torso.

“Daddy, Aunt Ruby needs more cookies,” the little Alice impersonator announced.

Jefferson’s face softened and he smoothed the girl’s hair down. “I’ll show you where they are in a minute, poppet, but we must mind our manners. This is Mr. Gold. Mr. Gold, my daughter Grace.”

Grace eyed him thoughtfully. “I like your costume.” Gold blinked and looked down at his customary, quite ordinary three-piece suit.

“I, uh…”

“You forgot your hat, though, and I'm not sure your coat is the right color. Shouldn't it be purple, like Dad's?”

Helplessly Gold looked up at Jefferson, who chuckled. “Ah, yes. I have an extra if you need one to complete your ensemble, Mr. Gold.”

“No, thank you, I’ll...I’ll make do without.”

“Suit yourself. Sweets, the cookies are in the back room on Aunt Belle’s desk. Run and get them.” She scampered off and Jefferson smiled at Gold. “She thinks you’re dressed as Willy Wonka. It's the gold-topped cane, I think."

“Right. Well. I suppose I should…” Gesturing vaguely, Gold walked off in search of his grandson, who was currently tossing rings and looking as if life offered no greater pleasure. He was just looking about the store and wondering where Miss French was when she emerged from the back room and he was suddenly very, very glad he’d offered his apology earlier, because there was no way he’d be able to talk to her now. Not without thoroughly embarrassing himself.

Half of her hair was pulled up in a sort of bun at the top of her head, and the rest tumbled down in gentle waves, curling over her bare shoulders. Her off-shoulder, floor-length gown and elbow-length gloves glittered in the dim store, and though the red and green lights threw the occasional odd hue over everything, the color was unmistakable - she was dressed shoulders to toe in gold.

“Wow,” Henry said next to him, and Roderick jumped and looked down at him. “She looks just like Belle from the movie.”

“The movie?” Gold racked his brains trying to remember which movie Henry would have been likely to see that also featured a siren dressed in his namesake.

“ _Beauty and the Beast_ , Gramps. Remember?”

“Right.”

“Kind of weird, though,” and Gold could hear the beginnings of Henry’s sly smile. “Her dress is gold, and your _name_ is…”

“Yes, yes, quite a striking coincidence,” Gold grumbled, nudging the boy lightly. “It’s your name, too, if you’ll remember.”

“Yeah, but _I’m_ not the one she was flirting with last time.”

Sighing, Roderick took the boy by the shoulders and pushed him in the direction of the snack table. “Will you please go and make yourself sick on chocolate like a normal child?” Henry stuck out his tongue but, instead of going to the snacks, he headed directly for Belle, who was seating herself at a table.

“Face painting’s open!” Jefferson announced from near the back of the store, and a few of the little ones left their games to queue up by Belle’s table, where she was squeezing paint onto paper plates. Henry joined them, and it became clear fairly quickly that there were too many eager human canvases for her to handle all at once. A sign-up sheet was produced, and the children dispersed again to the games, only leaving them when their name was called.

Gold was just beginning to feel comfortable when he heard Belle call his name. Well, not his name exactly. She was calling for “Roddy” and looking around in confusion. He felt his face begin to burn and searched out his incorrigible little matchmaker of a grandson, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. Growling to himself, he stalked over to the table.

“Oh, good evening, Mr. Gold,” she said neutrally, her eyes still scanning the room for the nonexistent Roddy.

“My apologies, once more, Miss French,” he said stiffly, “but it appears Henry is having a bit of fun at my expense.”

She looked confused for only a second more, and then her eyes crinkled and she chuckled, a throaty little sound that caught at his imagination and tried to drag it to unmentionable places. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t make the connection.”

“I’m sorry he wasted your time.”

“It doesn’t have to be a waste. Are you sure you don’t want your face painted?”

His aforementioned imagination went into overdrive, conjuring images of her fingers on his face, her breath tickling his cheek, her lip caught between her teeth in concentration. The activity had never seemed erotic before, and it still _shouldn’t_ , but...

”Er…”

“Gramps!” Henry materialized at his side, tugging at his hand and smiling up at him. “Are you getting your face painted, too?”

“Well, I…”

“You could get a Batman symbol like me!” The boy pointed to the black shape that adorned his left cheek. “We can match!”

“Uh, I don’t…”

“Come on, _please?_ ” And oh, the boy was playing dirty now, staring at him with those big puppyish dark eyes that were the very spitting image of Neal’s, and Gold knew he’d lost before he’d even really begun to fight.

“Oh, very well.”

Henry cheered and pumped a fist in the air, and Gold folded himself into the very small chair in front of Miss French, who was biting down on her lower lip quite ruthlessly in a heroic effort to smother her giggles. Face burning, Gold directed his gaze to the paper plate dotted with various colors of paint and wondered how on earth he had let himself get talked into this situation.

“I’m gonna go bob for cookies,” Henry blurted, and he was gone before Gold could do more than scowl at him.

“He’s ruthless, isn’t he?” Miss French said fondly, following him with her eyes.

“Yes. Gets it from both sides of the family, unfortunately.”

She laughed again and his squirming insides relaxed a little. She didn’t seem upset by this turn of events; her eyes were positively glowing and her lips were still quirked in a small smile.

“If you’d rather not have a Bat symbol drawn on your cheek, I can paint something on your hand instead,” she offered. “A few of the parents do that to keep their kids happy.”

Hoping his relief wasn’t too pronounced, Gold nodded. Surely that would be better than having her so close to his face…

His thoughts scattered as she picked up his hand from where it lay on the tablecloth and he suddenly realized that she had removed her gloves, probably to protect them from the paint. He prayed his palm wouldn’t start to sweat as her skin warmed his own. Pulling his hand slightly closer to her, she dipped her brush in the black paint and began to slowly trace the outline of the Batsignal on his skin. Was it really necessary to paint so slowly? Would the paint smudge otherwise? Or...Her thumb moved ever so slightly against side of his hand, her eyes flashing up at him from under her lashes, and he clenched his jaw to keep from flinching away.

“Are you a Batman fan, too?” she asked when half of the outline was complete.

“Ah...no, not exactly.” Her eyebrows lifted in inquiry and he continued. “I don’t _dislike_ them, but...well, comics aren’t exactly my cup of tea.”

“What is, then?”

 _Beautiful brunettes with a taste for poetry_. No. Better not to say that aloud. “The Romantics I suppose.” This really was an ideal position from which to admire her, though. Her eyes were trained on his hand, and he could look his fill without fear of discovery.

“Really? I’d have pegged you for a neoclassicist, myself.”

“Intellect and logic are paramount in my daily life, but that doesn’t mean I surround myself with them at all times. A man needs balance in his life, after all. My work feeds my mind. I like my leisure reading to feed the soul.”

“Hence the Burns.”

“Precisely.”

He wondered how he was having this conversation with his hand trapped in hers, when he’d been fairly sure he’d be stuck trying not to have a heart attack, but Belle, for all her extraordinary beauty, exuded a certain warmth that made him feel at ease.

Safe.

Calm.

Until, that was, she completed the black shape with a final swipe of her brush and lifted his hand to her lips to gently blow on the paint. He nearly jumped out of his skin. She smiled kindly at him.

“Just to help it dry,” she soothed. He couldn’t have answered her if his family’s life had depended on it, so he sat there dumbly while she continued to blow on his skin with those perfect lips of hers before finally releasing him. “There,” she pronounced with the tiniest of smirks. “All done.”

His voice still hadn’t returned, so he nodded his thanks and stood so quickly his chair tipped over backwards. Righting it, he forced himself to walk at a steady pace towards his grandson, who was grinning like a loon.

“Cool tattoo, Grandpa,” Henry said, his voice thick with triumph.

“Humph,” was Gold’s response, but all in all it hadn’t been a _total_ disaster, so he refrained from threatening the boy with disinheritance.

The party was concluded, of course, with story time, during which all three of the bookstore employees shared their favorite ghost stories - including nods to the books in which those stories could be found, of course. The children giggled and squirmed and squealed, and Gold stood near the door and tried not to be too entranced by the way Belle’s eyes danced and her voice lowered to a sultry pitch as she regaled her audience with the tale of the phantom hitchhiker.

At last, to the noisy complaints of all party-goers, Belle stood and announced the evening to be over. Parents collected their spawn, Jefferson and Ruby began cleaning, and Belle stood by the door and handed each child a gift bag as he exited.

“This was great, Miss French,” Henry enthused. He’d maneuvered it so they were the last to leave, so there was no immediate excuse to hurry him out the door, and Gold stood by helplessly as he continued, “Have you been to my grandpa’s store, yet? It’s decorated for Halloween too, and it looks like a funhouse.”

“No, I...I haven’t, Henry. Maybe I’ll stop by next week.”

“You should! Ariel Delmar is having a signing.”

“Oh.” Belle raised her eyes to Gold’s, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t know she was planning on having a signing at Goldleaf.”

“We approached her at the party,” Gold said neutrally.

“Did she mention she was going to be here?”

“She didn’t, in fact.” But he’d known, of course. He knew she and Belle had been roommates in college, and he’d known she usually had her signings at Avonlea. He did his homework, after all. Ariel Delmar was a rising star in children’s literature, and her connection to Avonlea Books had not deterred him in the least from seeking her out. Why should it? He wasn’t actively poaching authors away from the little store, and even if he was, it wasn’t personal; it was business.

He had a queasy feeling in his gut that Belle saw right through his indifference and feigned ignorance. She continued to smile, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, thank you both for coming. Good night.” And they were politely shoved out the door, which shut a little too firmly behind them.

“Uh, did I say something wrong?” Henry asked worriedly.

“No, Henry. I rather think I did.”

“Rats.” The boy scuffed his feet as they began to walk down the sidewalk toward the meter where they’d parked the car. “I thought she might like you. She was looking at you, too, y’know. I mean, when you weren’t looking at her. It was kind of funny, but...now she’s mad.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. But do me a favor and stop trying to matchmake for your old granddad, hm?”

Henry sighed, which might or might not have been acquiescence, and climbed morosely into the backseat of the Cadillac. With a final, hopeful glance at the entrance to Avonlea Books - though without knowing what he hoped to see - Gold maneuvered into the city streets and took his grandson/hapless Cupid home.

* * *

 

 _That man._ Belle fumed silently to herself as she helped her coworkers pack up the decorations and set the store to rights. That infuriating, sneaky, manipulative bastard. Somehow he’d poached Ariel right out from under her nose, and he hadn’t even planned on telling her, and he’d sat there so adorably flustered with his hand in hers, allowing his grandson to emotionally blackmail him into getting a Batsignal painted on his skin, and he’d talked about Romantic poetry feeding the soul, and she’d almost _bought_ it, like the fool she was.

He didn’t play fair, that was all. He had to know the effect his melting dark eyes and long wavy hair and lilting brogue could have on a woman, and he’d played her like a fine-tuned instrument, letting her think she actually had the upper hand for once. And then to drop that awful bomb on her…

Well, okay, Henry had been the one to mention Ariel’s signing, but he could have warned her, couldn’t he? Come to her and suggested they share the signing somehow, at Goldleaf one week and Avonlea the next...but that was ridiculous. There was no sense in an author holding signings in two shops just around the corner from each other when it was presumed those shops were in direct competition. Ariel had thrown in her lot with Goldleaf, and while the discovery stung horribly, Belle couldn’t, in the most practical part of her mind, blame her, really. Goldleaf was much larger and would hold more people, helping her reach a broader audience.

Gold’s words from the party came back to her and reverberated in her head - _loyalty, sentimentality, cut-throat_ \- and while he’d apologized for them, that didn’t make them less true. She _had_ counted on Ariel’s loyalty, and she’d been betrayed.

Blinking back tears, Belle shoved the last of the Halloween decorations into the storage closet, looked around the shop once more - the others had long since gone home - and locked up. The walk home was dark and quiet, and she found herself missing her mother with an aching clarity that she hadn’t felt in years.

Colette would know what to do. Colette would know what kind, polite, but firm words to use to convince Ariel to come back to Avonlea, and what actions to take to keep her store safe from bankruptcy. She wouldn’t be wandering home at night with tears on her cheeks, wondering what she should do next.

There was, thank heavens, an email from spinners_luck when she got home, wishing her an enjoyable Halloween and hoping she didn’t make herself sick on chocolate.

I can’t promise to take my own advice, as chocolate is most definitely one of my weaknesses. A sweet tooth may not seem a deadly failing to have, but if my enemies knew how easily my acquiescence could be bought with the promise of tasty things, my business deals would be much less lucrative - though infinitely more enjoyable. 

Belle laughed, the tightness in her chest lifting, and she responded.

_A businessman, are you? I didn’t know that before. I thought maybe you were some distinguished German professor with numerous academic awards to your name. I confess I’m not one for sweets, really - my favorite meal in the world is a big juicy cheeseburger with a tall glass of iced tea. It’s a lately-acquired taste: a friend of mine has a family member who runs a diner, and her cheeseburgers might just be the physical manifestation of happiness on Earth. The only sweet I really care for is creme brulee; my mother made it every Christmas and I remember bursting with pride the first year she determined that I was old enough to be trusted with the torch._

_My mother died when I was just out of high school. It was a car accident on an icy road in Maine - nothing interesting or noteworthy, really, except that the most beautiful and intelligent and delightful woman ever born was no longer in existence and the bottom fell out of my world. My father stuck it out with me until I graduated from college and then he had to get away, get a fresh start - as did I, but I moved to the city, and he moved to another continent._

_Today I miss her so desperately I can hardly breathe. I always do when the holidays come around, but it’s worse this year because I need her advice. I just know she’d know exactly what to do and how to make everything better._

_I know we said no personal details, but tonight I feel the irresistible need to have these memories and feelings recorded and shared with another soul so that I know I’m not alone. Thank you, sweet soul, for your attention._

Her heart easier than it had been a week, Belle shoved the laptop aside, burrowed under her blankets, and fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I couldn't picture Gold charming the cashier into taking a card in a cash-only line (do those still exist?) and anyway it's not like Belle would let herself get cowed into that situation in the first place. I hope you liked my alternative.
> 
> 2) The Halloween party and the hand-painting seriously came out of freaking nowhere and I don't know how any of it happened, but I like it. There may have been cold medicine involved.


	5. Chapter 4: Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle gets advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos, everyone! It's been a hectic week with little to no downtime, but I have everything planned out (if not actually written yet) and I'm loving the ride.

When Belle opened her inbox the next morning, there was no message from spinners_luck awaiting her. With an unreasonable level of disappointment, she spent the morning drawing up schedules for the workshops Jefferson and Ruby had suggested - they had announced that two writers’ workshops (one for adults and one for high school students) would occur in the second week of November and interest had been...well...decent. Enough had registered to cover the cost of the lecturer’s fees, at least, and that was something.

There were also holidays to think and plan for. Ruby’s grandmother had more or less adopted Belle, Jefferson, and Grace the moment Ruby began work at the bookshop, and Belle had become accustomed to spending Thanksgiving and Christmas with them. This year, though, she had begun to feel a tug behind her ribs that she hadn’t felt in years - the unmistakable yearning for home. It was odd how that feeling could creep up on one and demand satisfaction. She decided to call her father after dinner, knowing that he would be awake but not ready to open the shop yet.

“Bluebell!” He sounded so surprised and delighted to hear from her that Belle almost cried. How could she feel lonely with so many wonderful friends around her? “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m okay, Dad,” Belle smiled, but she heard her voice waver.

“Are you sure? You sound a little watery.”

“Oh, Dad, I just...I can’t…”

And just like that, all of the worries and fears she’d kept bottled from everyone spilled out of her, across the ocean and several continents, and into her father’s patient ear: her rapidly dwindling profit margins, the complete disinterest shown by people she’d thought could help, and above all her utter helplessness in the face of what seemed like certain failure. Failure was as anathema to Belle as cruelty, and until she finished with a deep, shaking breath she hadn’t realized how absolutely terrified she was.

“Oh, Belle,” her father sighed on the other end of the line. “You know how incredibly proud your mother would be, don’t you?”

“How could she be?” Belle croaked. “I’m losing her business, her legacy. When it’s gone, there’ll be nothing left of her.”

“That’s absurd, Bluebell. The shop isn’t her legacy, _you_ are. You were everything to her, and she would have been just as proud if you’d decided to take up...I don’t know...ice sculpture, or street miming, or whatever made you happy.”

“The shop _does_ make me happy, Dad. At least, it used to.”

Her father was silent for a moment. “Sweetheart, you know that you aren’t the same person you were ten years ago, don’t you? Things change, times change, and _you_ change. Just because the shop made you happy in the past doesn’t mean it will always continue to do so.”

“What are you saying?” Belle squeaked. “Are you saying I should give up? Quit?”

“Of course not! If the shop still makes you happy, you should do what you can to hold onto it. All I’m saying is that you should also be open to the possibility of change.”

Ah. Belle thought she knew where this was headed. Well, she was just about sobbed out anyway, and it wasn’t as if she called him every day.

“Are there any developments on the romance front? Gaston was asking about you the other day. He was always a bit smitten with you, you know.”

“Gaston and I were over before we began, Dad, you know that. And...I don’t know about the romance, actually. Maybe. It’s a bit complicated.”

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line. “That is the first time in your entire life that you haven’t immediately said no, there aren’t any men in your life, and to mind my own business.”

Belle smiled. “You should still mind your own business, Nosy, but...I’ve been talking with someone. It might be heading somewhere, it might not. I’ve been so focused on the shop that I haven’t wanted to think about it.”

“Well, can I hope for an email or text message when you decide on a wedding date?”

She laughed aloud at that. “Maybe,” she said teasingly. “You’ll at least get a clipping of the announcement from the paper.”

He snorted, and Belle smiled, recognizing that they shared that particular expression of amusement. Colette had certainly never snorted in her life. It was good, sometimes, to remember that she was the product of a union and that she had inherited some of her qualities - her stubbornness, most notably - from Maurice. She wasn’t a clone of Colette, for all she looked just like her, and she shouldn’t expect herself to be one.

“I don’t think I’m ready to give up on the shop yet,” Belle said firmly. “I don’t know what…”

She broke off when her phone alerted her to a new email. Glancing at her phone’s display, she saw with a jolt that it was from spinners_luck, and the subject line read “Advice.”

“Belle?”

“Sorry, Dad. Can I call you again next week, maybe? I just thought of someone who might be able to help me.”

“Of course, Bluebell. It was wonderful to hear from you. Do you think you’ll be able to come out around Christmas?”

“As much as I could use a week or six at the beach, I’ll have to see what state my finances are in. We’ll talk more later. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Heart racing, Belle wasted no time pulling up the message from her online crush.

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com 

To: Livreamour@gmail.com 

Re: Advice 

You never need thank me for being a willing ear (eye?) for your musings. Hearing from you, I have no hesitation in saying, is absolutely the best part of my day, and would remain so under any circumstances. 

Belle blushed and squirmed and wished, not for the first time, that she had taken him up on his offer to meet.

You mentioned that you were in need of advice. Might I be able to help? 

Biting her lip - he _had_ said he was a businessman, after all - she pressed reply without even bothering to grab her laptop and was writing a response when a notification popped up on her screen. He had emailed her once more.

Are you online at the moment? 

She smiled and typed. _I am. Chat?_

They’d spent ages, when they’d first met in a chat room they both insisted they’d entered on accident, figuring out how they could continue their conversations in the future without revealing their identities. In the end, they’d each created new email accounts with no names or personal information listed. Belle often thought it was strange that despite the infinitely increasing vastness of cyberspace, it seemed there were fewer and fewer places to hide.

The chat box popped up.

I had a feeling you’d be online now. I can give you advice, if you’d like. 

_I don’t know if you’d be able to help, but...maybe._

In his own penthouse apartment, Gold took a deep breath and held it.  Is it about love?  “Please say no,” he muttered.

Belle grinned. “Fishing for info, are we?” _No. My business is in trouble._

Ah! Then you’re in luck. I happen to be a brilliant businessman. What’s your business? 

_No specifics, remember?_

Without specifics, it’s difficult to give advice. The only thing I could possibly think of that is always applicable is this: “All is fair in love and war.” 

_Are you saying business is war? That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?_

If your business is in trouble, you must fight to save it. If you’re uncomfortable with the war comparison, think of the other half of that quote. Do you love your business? If you do, you’ll fight to save it. If you don’t, you’ve already lost. 

Belle worried her lip with her teeth. _I do love my business. I thought I’d done all I could, but perhaps I haven’t. Perhaps there is more I could do. I just don’t want to stoop, I guess. There are people behind businesses; I don’t like being at war with people._

Gold shook his head.  Much as I adore your kind nature, you must stop taking business personally. Repeat after me: It’s not personal, it’s business. It’s not personal, it’s business. Say that to yourself whenever you begin to doubt. 

“It’s not personal,” Belle whispered, thinking of Ariel’s desertion. “It’s business.” She took a deep breath and blew it out forcefully. “It’s _not personal._ It’s _business._ ”

You have said yourself that you want to be brave. Take your own advice. Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow. Fight. Fight to the death. No one can save your business but you. 

Belle stared at her screen and breathed deeply, suddenly aware of the heat in her cheeks and the tingle under her skin. He sounded...ruthless. Forceful. God, she wasn’t _turned on_ by this was she? Apparently so. That was a kink she never knew she had. She had no idea how to answer him and was almost relieved when her phone rang, jolting her out of a kind of trance.

“Hey, Jeff!”

There was a beat of silence. “Uh...hey,” he said cautiously. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“You sure? You sound…”

“What do you need?” Belle fought down a blush.

“Just making sure you’re okay. You’ve seemed a little off lately.”

“I’ve been thinking. Do you still have that contact at the Mirror?”

“Yes,” Jefferson said warily. “Why?”

“Do you think you could convince her to publish a letter to the editor? Maybe get someone to do a write-up on the shop?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“We’re still losing money and I - I don’t think being nice is getting us anywhere. It’s time to fight.”

Jefferson paused. He was silent so long Belle worried he’d hung up on her, but after a few moments he said, “Yeah. Okay. I’ll give Regina a call. I don’t like it, mind you - I left the Mirror for a lot of reasons and Regina was at least six of them - but Avonlea is worth it. Just promise me we won’t go too far?”

“We’ll go exactly as far as we need to go to save the store.”

“That’s what worries me,” Jeff muttered just before she rang off.

* * *

“Papa? Do you still get the Mirror?”

Gold hastily closed his inbox, which he’d been checking near-obsessively since his conversation with Livreamour three days ago, and waved his son in. “No, not for years. Regina and I aren’t exactly on good terms. Why?”

“There’s something in here you might want to see.” Neal set the paper on Roderick’s desk and pointed to the letters section. “It mentions Goldleaf specifically.”

Brow creasing, Gold picked it up and began to read.

**“Dear Editor: The most disturbing thing I’ve heard recently is the dead silence regarding the construction of a Goldleaf Books on the West Side, threatening the existence of several independent bookshops, among them Avonlea Books, helmed by Miss Belle French. The block was once a veritable agora of literature, beloved by readers of all ages, who could be certain of entering any of the shops and meeting with a soulmate, whether amongst the shelves or upon them. Many of these shops have been handed down for generations, and those who employ and are employed see themselves not as shopkeepers and salespeople, but as protectors and nurturers and, yes, matchmakers, helping to match a reader with the book that will become the love of his life.**

**“There is no love in selling someone a book he will never read simply because it’s buy one, get one free. There is no love in the sterile, whitewashed walls of a discount store where the 30% off bins hold everything from Shakespeare to Stephen King to Danielle Steel and any questioning of the khaki-wearing employee reveals that if he has read anything more edifying than a cereal box in the last year, it was purely by accident. Compare the requirements to be a floor manager at Goldleaf (high school diploma, no felonies or serious misdemeanors) to the pedigree boasted by the staff of Avonlea: literature, history, and library science experts all, with four Bachelor’s and two Master’s degrees between them, and never a single unsatisfied or unhappy customer. In thirty years of service, that’s quite the feat. Yes, you read that right. Thirty years without a single complaint or negative Yelp review.**

**“Belle French and her mother Colette have raised your children. They have offered love and loyalty and literacy to this neighborhood and this city, sometimes from the benevolence of their own hearts, as several cash-strapped young readers will be too glad to tell you. They have given of their lifeblood to provide you and your children with the means to discover new worlds and explore new sensations and ideas from the comfort of your own homes, and now they face extinction. If this precious resource is killed by the cold cash cow of Goldleaf Books, it will not only be the end of Western civilization as we know it, but the end of something even dearer: our neighborhood as we know it. Save Avonlea Books and you will save your own soul."**

Gold chuckled and laid the paper aside. “Quite the passionate rant. Too bad the Mirror has been losing readership for years.”

Neal shook his head. “You keep forgetting this is the age of the internet, Papa. This article is _everywhere._ ”

“What do you mean everywhere?”

“I mean half of my friends have shared it on their walls. News anchors and celebrities are tweeting it, Emma says a version of it showed up on tumblr and it’s got thousands of notes, and at least two prominent YouTube vloggers have posted videos reviewing it and weighing in - on Avonlea’s side and not ours, in case you were wondering.”

“For God’s sake, son, I only know what a third of those words mean.”

“What you should be hearing is that everyone in the city is talking about this article, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear it’s gone national. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but current popular opinion is not exactly in favor of big box stores.” Neal sighed. “This is bad, Papa. We need to do some damage control. PR told me they’ve already received several calls asking for a comment, and I bet within the next day or so we’re going to have to give a statement.”

“If people don’t want to buy our books they’re more than welcome not to do so,” Gold snapped.

“Not that statement,” Neal said hurriedly. “Please, for the love of God, never ever say that outside of this room.”

“I’m not sure why you’re so concerned about this. We’ve faced disgruntled hipsters before, and we’ll face them again. It’s only a matter of time before the grumbling dies down and they find some other evil corporation to harass.”

Neal eyed him skeptically, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by a chime from his phone. He picked it up and scanned it, his eyes widening.

“What now?”

“There’s a demonstration going on down at the store. Maybe you should see this.” He handed the screen to his father, turning up the volume as he did so. The video, of dubious quality, had obviously been taken with someone’s phone. About a dozen people were marching in a circle holding up picket signs and chanting.

“What’s that they’re saying?”

Both men listened carefully, and then Neal said, “I think it’s ‘one, two, three, four, we don’t want your superstore.’”

“Catchy, that.”

Belle and her employees were not among the picketers, Gold noticed. Despite everything Neal had just told him, this video struck home with him - people were writing and talking and acting against his company, and God help him, but Neal was right. They were going to have do something.

“Have someone in PR come up with a statement to distribute this afternoon. Maybe something about the unmistakable whiff of elitism in this writer’s assumption that only extensively and expensively educated people are capable of reading and loving books.” Gold tapped his fingers on his desk. “Point out that the discount bins allow those of limited means to purchase books they might not otherwise encounter. Refer to our policy of buying used books so that they don’t have to sit uselessly on the shelves of those who will never read them.” Neal nodded and made notes. “Finally, find out who’s approached Avonlea and offer to have one of us give a counterargument to whatever has been said.”

Neal looked at him expectantly. “And?”

“And what? That’s enough for now, don’t you think?”

“ _I_ think so, sure, but usually there’s a little more from you. A little digging, a little mud-slinging - you don’t want financial records or personal histories or questionable romantic entanglements?”

Gold’s stomach clenched at the thought. Deliberately ruin Belle French? Even he wasn’t that monstrous. Setting out to hurt her on purpose would be akin to hunting down baby harp seals. Lame ones. With a machine gun.

“No.”

“Wow. You’re getting soft in your old age. Don’t get me wrong,” Neal chuckled, “I like it. It’s just different. That girlfriend of yours is a good influence.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Gold protested, but his voice wasn’t as firm as he’d have liked.

“‘Course you don’t. Okay, Papa, I’ll get right on this. This time tomorrow, the story will be less one-sided.”

When Neal was gone, Gold lasted all of two minutes before he checked his inbox again. Still nothing from Livreamour. Well, if she’d taken his advice and had begun to go to war for her business, she was probably very busy.

He wondered what her business was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I have a different take on Moe in this story, since I honestly hate OUAT's Moe/Maurice (I mean, duh). Maurice from the Disney BatB is hands-down my favorite Disney parent and it bugs me that they decided to go with "controlling, condescending knuckle-dragger" instead of "selfless, open-minded, supportive inventor."
> 
> 2) Did you guys know that chat rooms aren't really a thing anymore? I spent a solid hour searching for a believable way, in this day and age, for Belle and Gold to chat real time and not know each other's names, especially since they have gmail accounts. At the end of it all I felt very old and cranky.


	6. Chapter 5: Sucker Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle continues her fight to the death. Gold receives a few nasty shocks.

Avonlea Books was absolutely crawling with people. Half of them were wearing shirts that bore the shop’s insignia and the words “Save Your Soul” - one of the more enthusiastic culture warriors had created and distributed them - and the other half were reading the anonymous article in the  _ Mirror _ . Many of them approached Belle to smile at her, shake her hand, and assure her of their ardent support.

Very few of them were actually buying books.

Belle took a deep breath and smiled at the TV camera in front of her. Channel 2 News had called and begged for an interview, and she’d agreed. All was fair in love and war, and she was prepared to fight for her shop. The thought that spinners_luck would approve of her approach made her feel that little bit braver.

The cameraman indicated that they were on the air, and the reporter - Annie? Amy? God she couldn’t remember - spoke in a bright, cheery voice. “We're here in front of Avonlea Books, the famous West Side bookstore now on the verge of having to close its doors because the big bad wolf, Goldleaf Books, has opened only a few hundred feet away, wooing customers with its sharp discounts and designer coffee. Belle, the article in the  _ Mirror _ was fairly damning about the service to be expected at Goldleaf. Do you want to expand on that?”

“Well,” Belle said hesitatingly, “it’s certainly true that most people who work there don’t have the expertise that my staff and I have worked hard to attain. They have discounts and lattes, but if you ask someone for help or recommendations you’re out of luck.”

“What kind of recommendations do you mean? How does knowing about books help someone sell them?”

“Well, let’s start with you,” Belle smiled. “What was your favorite book as a child?”

“I simply loved  _ Anne of Green Gables _ .”

“Okay, so I would take what I know of that book - its strong-minded, independent heroine; its exploration of the importance of belonging and community; and its theme of learning to balance romance and reality, and I’d think of other books that have similar criteria. In this instance, I’d recommend  _ Daddy-Long-Legs _ by Jean Webster and  _ Christy _ by Catherine Marshall.”

“And what would an employee at Goldleaf do?”

“From what I’ve seen, she would pull out her store-issued device, type in  _ Anne of Green Gables _ , and present you with a list of books that the computer tells her are similar.”

“How is that different from what you do?”

“It isn’t, at its most basic,” Belle shrugged, “except that I will wait eagerly for you to come back to the shop after a few days and tell me how much you loved or hated the book, what you’ve learned about yourself, and where you think your reading journey will take you next. As far as Goldleaf Books is concerned, the journey is over the moment you lay your money down. The difference, really, is that we  _ care _ . We care about you, as a person and a reader, not just as a customer.”

* * *

 

“She’s kind of something, isn’t she?” Neal mused.

Gold took a drink of his water to avoid answering and wished the waiter would bring the damned check already. The television across from them had been playing Belle’s interview throughout lunch and he was really quite tired of being distracted by her expressive face and sweet smile when he was trying to spend rare quality time with his son.

“Emma says she’s just as nice in person. Is that true?”

“Mmm.”

“Pretty, too. I never really noticed that before.”

Gold drummed his fingers on the table and avoided his son’s eyes, which were studying him closely.

“Of course, looks can be deceiving. She could be a real pill.”

“She’s not,” Gold snapped before he could stop himself.  _ Dammit _ . Neal grinned.

“So Henry was onto something. You  _ do _ have a thing for the Story Lady. I knew there was a reason you weren’t being quite as savage as usual. Does she like you too? Henry thought she might.”

“Isn’t one imaginary romance enough for you?” Gold growled, snatching up the check as it arrived and handing it and his card to the waiter.

“That’s not a denial.”

Why was their waiter so unutterably slow? They were never going to get back to the office at this rate.

“Oh, there you are. I wondered when they’d get to you.” Neal, thank God, had been distracted by Gold’s own face appearing on the television. “Good call with contacting the networks ahead of time; this way they can show both sides.”

Himself on the television was not something he cared to see, so Gold busied himself with his coat and scarf.

“...we spoke to Roderick Gold, owner and CEO of Goldleaf Books.”

“I sell cheap books,” Roderick’s testy voice reverberated around the room. “I sell cheap books, and as a result - bear with me, this might be a bit hard to follow, dearie - more people can buy books.”

“That,” the newscaster said, appearing again with a wry smile, “appears to be Goldleaf’s philosophy in a nutshell.”

Gold froze in the act of putting on his gloves, staring in horrified disbelief at the television. Next to him, Neal’s silence was deafening. Neither man moved for a full ten seconds.

“Papa,” Neal croaked, “is that really what you said?”

“I...that’s not all I said!” Gold exclaimed. “I said...I said that we were great! I said that you could sit and read for hours and no one would bother you. I said we stock 150,000 titles and will order from anywhere in the country. I showed them our extensive children’s section with the reading tree, and the New York City section, and the coffee shop with the croissants and the armchairs. I said we were a piazza!”

“A piazza?”

“I was eloquent!”

“Shit.” Neal ran a hand through his hair. “They’re going to make her look like Saint George going up against some kind of evil gold-hoarding dragon.”

“Not me personally, son, it’s the company.”

“When we come back, inside sources have revealed interesting details about CEO Roderick Gold and his position at Goldleaf, which was originally called Neverland Books,” the newscaster said, and father and son turned to stare at the screen. “Malcolm Gold, who retired amidst rumors of embezzlement, apparently turned his shares over to his son - despite some question about whether it was legal for him to do so. Could it be that Mr. Gold is conducting business under false pretenses? More when we return.”

“She didn’t,” Neal whispered.

Gold felt dizzy. He’d worked so hard to erase Malcolm’s name from public memory, to distance himself from the dishonest, sleazy old bastard - right down to changing the name and having all the licenses reissued. He’d fought tooth and nail to keep the company in the black and to recoup losses from his father’s reckless and borderline illegal business practices. How on earth had Belle managed to dig up this particular payload of dirt?

He’d severely underestimated her, it seemed. Well,  _ she’d _ underestimated  _ him _ . She had no idea what he was capable of, but she would find out. He would discover the dirt on her and destroy her with it.

* * *

 

There was no change. Belle wasn’t sure how that was possible, but there was no change in her sales numbers. She stared at the spreadsheets until she thought her eyes might start to bleed. Overhead was simply too high. If she wanted to keep the store open, she would need to do more than forego her own paycheck - she would need to let someone go.

She ran her fingers through her hair and pulled lightly, trying to keep the panic at bay. Between this and the unexpected nastiness of Regina’s digging, there was no way she was going to sleep tonight. Her furious call to the  _ Mirror _ had been deflected to Mr. Glass, the editor’s secretary, who smoothly denied that any information had changed hands between the paper and Channel 2 News, and asked her very solicitously if she was feeling well, because she sounded a little hoarse. Belle had hung up with her hands shaking. She called Jefferson, but his response was disappointingly cold.

“I warned you about Regina,” he said simply. “She’s a nasty piece of work.”

“This is terrible,” Belle groaned. “He’s going to crucify me, and I wouldn’t blame him a bit. How did she find out all that stuff about Mr. Gold’s father?”

“Their families are connected somehow - I can’t really remember - her mother was about Gold’s age, so maybe they knew each other? All I know is that Regina’s never been on particularly good terms with the Golds.”

“What do I do now? Should I reach out?”

Jefferson laughed incredulously. “You’d be insane to contact them in any way right now. Give it a couple of days and see how they respond.”

Belle agreed uneasily, but sitting at her laptop that night she knew she needed another opinion. She sent a quick message.

_ From: Livreamour@gmail.com _

_ To: spinners_luck@gmail.com _

_ I need help. Do you still want to meet me? _

When she returned from her shower, there was a response.

I would love to meet you. Where? When?

She answered him and tried to sleep, but dreams of anthropomorphic canes chasing her through Central Park kept her awake much of the night.

The next day Belle thought she might be sick. Her decisions of the night before were hanging over her head like rainclouds, and she wanted more than anything to be able to press “fast forward” on the day and get everything over with. She avoided speaking to her friends as much as possible, which was probably suspicious enough on its own, but when Jefferson had gone to pick up Grace and she and Ruby were alone in the store and she asked Ruby to step into the office for a moment, she knew Ruby knew.

Her friend sat, not in the chair in front of the desk, but on the desk itself, and put her hand on Belle’s.

“Honey, it’s okay.”

Belle closed her eyes, fighting back tears. “Can you get your old job at Granny’s diner back?”

“Of course! She’ll be thrilled I’m coming back. I’ll be fine, Belle, I promise.”

“I just...Jefferson has Grace to provide for and…”

“Belle. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, Ruby,” Belle sobbed, and then she was pulled up and into Ruby’s arms.

“Stop it. It’s not your fault,” Ruby whispered. “None of this is your fault. You’re doing your best, we all know that. Things have been rocky for a while and we knew something like this was going to happen. When the shop gets back on its feet I’ll still be around ready to work for you. I’ll come from anywhere, hon, just call my name and I’ll be there for you.”

Belle pulled away, wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m meeting someone tonight who might be able to help me. He’s a businessman and he’s offered his advice before.”

Ruby ducked down to meet her eyes. “Wait...are you talking about  _ the _ guy? Your email boyfriend?”

“Yeah. We’re meeting tonight at the cafe down the street.”

“Purely business?”

Belle huffed, a tiny watery sound. “I don’t know.”

“Call me if you need to. I’m serious. Nine-thirty, two-thirty in the morning, whatever,  _ call me _ . Don’t go anywhere private with him.”

“I won’t. It’ll probably just...he’s just going to give me business advice. I’ll be careful, Rubes, I promise.”

* * *

 

“You’re meeting her tonight?” Neal gaped at him.

“I need a distraction, son.”

He’d been at the office for hours tracking down leads on Avonlea’s proprietor. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was ridiculous, and he had ranted at Neal about it for a little while, but Belle French really was as spotless as she appeared. No expired licenses, no wonky rental agreements, no affairs with married men or college professors -  _ nothing _ . The woman was practically a saint, which made the whole ordeal that much more frustrating. How did a woman go from Mother Teresa to Machiavelli in the course of a week?

Neal jumped in the elevator with him and accompanied him down the street. “You’re really doing this? You’re actually going to meet her in person? Talk to her? Look her in the eye?”

“She needs help.”

“Ah.”

They walked in companionable silence for a little while.

“Let me guess: she’s carrying a book with a flower in it.” Neal gave his father the side-eye when he didn’t answer. “Not really.”

“ _ Her Handsome Hero _ .”

Neal nearly bent double laughing.

“It was her mother’s favorite book.”

“Oh, my God,” Neal gasped as he straightened up. “This is...can I stick around and take pictures? Please? Emma will never believe me.”

“I’m not going to stay long,” Gold snapped. “I’ll say hello, drink a cup of coffee, give her the advice she needs, and leave.”

Neal shook his head. “This is good, Papa. You’re taking the relationship to the next level. You have to do that, or else you’ll be stuck in one place forever. Where do you think I’d be if I didn’t take a chance with Emma?”

“Nowhere good. Possibly jail.” Gold sighed. “I’m not going to stay long.” After a pause, “I already said that didn’t I?”

“Yep!”

They were nearing the cafe and Gold’s anxiety was reaching very dangerous levels. He could feel his limbs start to shake and he stopped, grabbing Neal’s arm and bringing him to a halt beside him. “Bae,” he said quietly, the old nickname taking them both by surprise, “this woman is the most adorable creature I have ever been in contact with. If there turns out to be any spark - even the tiniest flicker of light - I would be crazy not to turn my life upside down and marry her.”

Neal put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a small, firm shake. “You’ll be fine, Papa. It’s not like you’re an ogre, y’know. She’s not going to take one look at you and run for the hills.”

“Will you...will you look for me?”

“Huh?”

“Just...will you look in? See if she’s there, what she looks like?”

“Ease you into it, you mean?”

Gold nodded shakily, gripping his cane with both hands to hide their trembling. Neal jogged up the steps of the cafe and peered through the window, and Gold leaned against the fence near the patio.

“Oh, wow, I see a really pretty woman.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, she is gorgeous.”

Gold wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information. Was he surprised? Relieved?

“No book, though.”

Neal was grinning mischievously at him and he glared back. Impudent pup.

“Okay, now I see a woman with a book and a flower. Gotta be her. The waiter’s in the way...he’s moving now…”

Neal suddenly fell suspiciously silent. “Well?” Gold demanded. “What do you see?”

“She’s, uh...she’s...very pretty. You like brunettes, right?”

Frowning, Gold pondered the unexpected question. Both of his previous romantic partners had been brunettes, now that he thought about it. He had a type. Not something he’d realized before. “I suppose so, yeah.”

“She has the same coloring as Belle French.”

“The Story Lady.”

“Yeah. You think she’s attractive, right?”

“Yes, absolutely. Why? Who cares about Belle French?”

“I can tell you right now, Papa, if you don’t like Belle French, you’re not going to like this woman.”

“Why not?” he asked, but almost immediately he knew the answer. He could feel it in his bones before the words left his son’s lips.

“Because it  _ is _ Belle French.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL GET THE POPCORN


	7. Chapter 6: Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold knows something Belle doesn't know. Belle is backed into a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean a lot to me; thanks for the encouragement everyone! This chapter was really hard to write, but I think it turned out okay. I hope you agree.

Belle fought hard to keep herself from fidgeting. After two cups of tea and fifteen minutes of anxious waiting, she was beginning to feel panicky. What if he didn’t show? Worse, what if he had already come in, seen her, and changed his mind? She took a deep breath and smoothed her hair. No, it was fine. He was just running a little late.

Maybe he was already in the shop but hadn’t seen the book! She hastily pushed the book towards the other side of the table, turning it so that anyone who entered could read the title clearly. For good measure she placed the rose lengthwise across the cover, but it nearly fell off the table. Inside the book then, that would have to do.

The door opened and Belle’s heart leapt into her throat; she craned her neck to stare at the entrance, but immediately shrank down in her chair when she saw who had entered. What was Gold doing here? His head began to turn in her direction and she scrambled for her book, hoping to bury her face in it and avoid his notice, or at least give the impression that she was terribly busy. Despite her best efforts, though, his uneven footsteps approached her table steadily and she knew she’d been thwarted.

“Well, well. Belle French. This is quite a coincidence.”

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

_“What are you going to do?” Neal asked as Gold’s brain struggled to assimilate this information._

_Livreamour was Belle French. Belle French was Livreamour. Her business was Avonlea Books, and he’d advised her to fight to the death to save her mother’s shop - advice he now knew she’d taken to heart. She knew that he had a weakness for chocolate and a secret passion for antiques; he could list all of her favorite books and knew without a doubt that she was drinking peppermint tea because she cut herself off from caffeine at four o’clock. He also knew how her hand felt in his and exactly where her dimples would appear when she smiled, and that her voice would lower in pitch when she was passionate about a subject._

_He knew he had been silent for far too long._

_“Nothing.” He turned resolutely away from the door._

_“What do you mean nothing? You’re just going to let her sit there all night?”_

_“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”_

_Neal shook his head. “You’re crazy about her, Papa. That thing about Grandfather was awful, but maybe there’s an explanation. You can’t just…”_

_“I can and I will. Good night, Neal.”_

_His son huffed and stomped away. “You’re gonna regret this,” he tossed over his shoulder._

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

“May I?” Mr. Gold asked, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

“Please don’t, I’m expecting someone.”

Mr. Gold shrugged and settled himself in the chair anyway. “I’ll leave when he arrives.”

“Please.” Belle twisted her fingers together and avoided his eyes. “Please go. I really can’t do this right now.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, dearie.” Mr. Gold leaned across the table, a cruel gleam in his eyes. “We have some things to discuss, you and I.”

Belle pressed her lips together and spread her fingers out before her. “I know, and we will. Really. I just...I need to talk to my friend. I’ve had a terrible day and…”

“Yes, digging up dirt on my family and selling it to the highest bidder must be exhausting. Congratulations, dearie, I could have sworn you didn’t have it in you.”

“What does that mean? Did you think I would just roll over and give up? That you could squash me as easily as a cockroach?”

“No, I thought you were too _noble_ to descend to such depths. I’m delighted I was wrong.”

“You backed me into a corner, Gold, and I didn’t have a choice but to fight back,” Belle sighed. “Do you know what I had to do today before I came here? I had to make a choice: fire either my best friend with a daughter to support, or the woman who’s been like a sister to me since the day we met. I would rather have ripped out my own heart! I haven’t slept properly in days and I haven’t eaten anything more substantial than a bagel since yesterday morning. All that kept me going was knowing that I was meeting my friend tonight. You will have your apology and your groveling tomorrow, but for now, please, _please_ leave me alone. I’m begging you.”

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Pure misery shone out of her eyes, but Gold hardened himself to their mesmerizing effect. “You came after my family,” he growled.

“You came after mine first!” Belle cried. She leaned her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands, and Gold was left looking about uneasily as he realized that it appeared as if he’d walked into the coffeeshop with the sole intention of making this woman cry. He was considering just getting up and leaving when he heard her voice coming from behind her hands, soft and muffled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You...what?”

“I’m sorry. I am, truly. That information - it was never supposed to be leaked. All I wanted was the article, but Regina said she had something better. When she sent me the files I told her I didn’t want or need them, to get rid of them. You’re right, family is off-limits. I tried to call her today but she gave me the run around. I can call the network tomorrow, but since I didn’t really give them the information I don’t know if it’ll do any good. For what very little it’s worth, I _am_ sorry.”

Well. And there went the wind knocked completely out of his sails. He was actually flabbergasted.

“Now will you please leave?” she sighed.

Gold struggled to reply but failed; with a shrug he rose and moved to the table behind her, sitting with his back to her. He heard her fidgeting behind him, and he looked back to see that she had taken out a compact and was checking her makeup. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Do you know what that handkerchief reminds me of?” he asked, his voice unusually soft. “The day I first met you.”

She laughed, a sad sobbing little sound. “The day you first lied to me.”

“We’ve been over this. I did _not_ lie to you.”

“Roderick. ‘Just call me Roderick.’ As if you were some sort of pop star with no last name, like Madonna or Cher. People are supposed to have last names!”

“I am not a pop star,” Gold argued.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Why are you so opposed to the idea of discount books, dearie? Doesn’t your literary little heart just light up with joy at the thought of more people being able to buy and read books?”

“It isn’t about the discounts and you know it. It’s about the people, knowing and loving and remembering and…”

“And that’s why you’re going out of business. Businesses don’t survive on love, they survive on profits. You were so cut up about firing your best friend, but did you never consider, when you hired her, that that might be a possibility? Why be an employer at all if you can’t stomach terminating an employee?”

“Is it really so unbelievable to you that I care about her? Your son works for you. I suppose if times got hard and you had to make cuts, you wouldn’t have any qualms about cutting him loose?”

Gold opened his mouth, but alas, he had no real answer for that. She was, annoyingly, right.

“Your problem is that you have no empathy. You know how _you_ feel in certain situations, but you can’t extend that knowledge in order to understand or care about others.”

“Oh, I understand a good deal more than you think.”

Belle snorted, then looked up hopefully when the bell by the door chimed. An elderly couple entered and she slumped in her chair. Gold took the opportunity to reclaim his seat at her table.

“That book, for instance. _Her Handsome Hero._ You brought it along to this very significant meeting, so it’s probably a favorite - handed down from your mother. You read it once a year, and now and then you daydream that your very own handsome hero will appear and sweep you off your feet.”

“Maybe he would if you would get out of his chair.”

Gold raised his eyebrows. “Does he know you can be testy when tired? I feel compelled to stay around to give the fellow a fair warning.”

Her eyes flashed. “He doesn’t need the warning. I won’t be ‘testy’ with him, because he is completely unlike you. The man who is coming here is kind and funny - he has the most wonderful sense of humor - “

“But he isn’t here.“

“If he isn’t here, he has a reason, because there is not a cruel or careless bone in his body, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand somebody like that.”

Fighting down the most irrational wave of jealousy he’d ever felt in his life, considering that she was, in fact, talking about him, Gold raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair with a smirk. He could practically see her bristle.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Belle was so tired and angry and frustrated that she felt as if her skin was shrinking over her body and slowly crushing her. Why wouldn’t he _go?_ “You sit up in that state-of-the-art building in your fancy office,” she snapped, “deluding yourself into thinking that you’re some sort of benefactor bringing books to the masses, but no one will ever remember you, Roderick Gold. And maybe I am nothing, maybe no one will remember me either, but plenty of people remember my mother, and they thought she was wonderful and that her shop was something special. _You_ are nothing but a suit.”

Mr. Gold stared at her, his smirk gone and his eyes dark and serious. There wasn’t even a hint of that smug superiority that had been needling her past the point of endurance. After a few seconds of silence he stood and said rather hoarsely, “Well. I suppose that’s my cue. Good night, Miss French.”

The moment he was gone, the fury and adrenaline that had been supporting Belle fell away. Spinners_luck wasn’t going to show, and now she would never be able to come to this cafe again without remembering this absolutely wretched encounter with Mr. Gold. She nearly jumped from her seat, grabbed her book, tossed a twenty on the table, and bolted from the shop.

There was no message from spinners_luck when she arrived home.

* * *

 

“How did it go?” Ruby asked the next morning over pancakes at Granny’s. Since she would soon be working there again, Belle had pledged to stop by every morning for coffee on her way to work. On the house, Granny insisted. Belle planned to sneak a few dollars into the tip jar if she could get away with it.

“He never showed,” Belle sighed.

“He stood you up?”

“I...I wouldn’t say that. What if he showed up, took one look at me, and left?”

“Not possible.”

“Then something terrible must have happened. Something that involved, I don’t know, a car accident or something that has him in the hospital with no phone available. Because I’m telling you, Ruby, he is not the kind of guy to leave me hanging like that.”

“How long did you sit there alone?”

“Not long. Roderick Gold came in.”

“Roderick Gold?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Belle shuddered.

Jefferson appeared apparently out of nowhere and slid into the booth across from Belle. “So?”

“How did you find out?”

“I know everything. How did it go?”

“He couldn’t make it.”

“He stood you up?”

Belle rolled her eyes.

* * *

 

_From: Livreamour@gmail.com_

_To: spinners_luck@gmail.com_

_I’ve been thinking about you. Last night I went to meet you and you weren't there. I wish I knew why. I felt so foolish. And as I waited, someone else showed up, a man who has made my professional life a misery, and an amazing thing happened - I was able, for the first time in my life, to hit upon exactly the right words to cut him off at the knees. I saw it happen. I can still picture the look on his face: hurt and sad and confused. And of course, afterwards, I felt terrible, just as you said I would. I was cruel, and I'm never cruel. And even though I can hardly believe what I said mattered to this man -- to him, I'm just a bug to be crushed -- what if it did? No matter what he's done to me, there's no excuse for my behavior._

_Anyway, I so wanted to talk to you. I hope you have a good reason for not being there last night; you don’t seem like the kind of person who would do something like that. I know that we haven’t mentioned particulars or personal details, and we’ve talked about nothing more often than something, but I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than many somethings. Even if we never connect again, I want you to know that I am grateful to have known you and to have had the privilege of your friendship._

She was unbelievable. She was unreal. There was simply no way this woman actually existed in the real world. He’d imagined her and for the past few months he'd been having very convincing delusions that his family was forced to buy into in order to keep him from having a nervous breakdown. It was the only explanation for a message that apologized, however indirectly, for her behavior and forgave him for his own, especially when deserved neither her remorse nor her mercy.

Gold stared at his screen and felt as if he were drowning, waves of affection for her and disgust for himself rolling over him. Visions of her face awash in misery and grief swam before his eyes and he wondered how long, exactly, he’d been deluding himself about his feelings for her. He’d told himself that he liked her - both versions of her. In email and in person he’d found her enchanting. There’d been a pull of attraction even before he’d had an exquisitely lovely face to put to the intriguing emails, and at the cafe last night, despite her anger and vitriol, he’d been positively breathless with the effort not to lean across the table and kiss her.

And now? Now he had no choice but to acknowledge that he was in love with her. It was almost funny, really, considering that he’d essentially ruined any slight chance he’d had of her ever feeling the same way. Spinners_luck could never meet Livreamour now but, selfish old bastard that he was, he wasn’t ready to give up her correspondence. He tried to think of a response that would ensure her continued good opinion.

I’m in Vancouver . 

No. He deleted it.

I was in a meeting that I couldn’t get out of. The electricity went out in the building and we were all stranded on the 38th floor, and there was no phone service because 

Why exactly was there no phone service? Was this imaginary meeting held in a bunker or safe room of some kind? He deleted it all and stared at the cursor blinking on the screen, mocking him. She had been honest with him and he couldn’t be honest with her unless he wanted to give up his life in New York and move somewhere far, far away. Not entirely honest, anyway. That thought prompted him to begin.

Dear friend, I cannot tell you what happened last night, but I beg you from the bottom of my heart to forgive me for not being there. 

His fingers tapped against the keyboard for a second or two before he replaced the final phrase.

...forgive me for what happened. I feel terrible that you found yourself in a situation that caused you additional pain. I am absolutely sure that whatever you said was provoked, even deserved. 

She had been a wounded animal, cornered and frightened, facing the loss of her livelihood and the death of her dreams. Of course she'd lashed out at him, the author of her shop's demise.

Y ou were expecting to see someone you trusted and met the enemy instead. The fault is mine. Someday I’ll explain everything. Meanwhile, I’m still here. Talk to me. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belle never really reacts the way I expect her to.


	8. Chapter 7: Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle comes to a decision. Gold opens up a bit.

“So did he say anything about meeting again?” Jefferson asked, keeping one eye on Grace as she chased rabbits around the park.

Belle smiled sadly. “No, he didn’t. It doesn’t matter. We’ll be like George Bernard Shaw and Mrs. Patrick Campbell and write letters our whole lives.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, really. It was a fun, exciting little period in my life and now it’s more or less over. I’m glad it happened, and I’m  _ really _ glad I went to meet him, even if he didn’t show. I felt brave.”

“It was brave.” Grace had tired of chasing rabbits and had flopped on the grass, watching the clouds float by. Jefferson smiled as he watched her. “So have you decided what we’re going to do?”

“We’re going to close.” The terrible, awful word caused her stomach to writhe.

Jefferson put an arm around her shoulders and tucked her head under his chin. “It’s the brave thing to do.”

“No, it isn’t. You’re just making that up to make me feel better.”

“I’m serious. I know it feels like a failure, but that shop has been your whole world since you were a little kid. You’re daring to imagine that you could have a different kind of life, stepping out into the unknown with nothing but your wits. I admire you for that.”

Belle snorted. “Not exactly nothing. I’ve saved a little.” She closed her eyes and willed her sadness away to return at a more opportune time. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, I...don’t take this the wrong way, but I knew if you didn’t close you’d have to make more cuts, so I put in an application at Goldleaf. Yesterday they offered me the manager position in the children’s department. I haven’t taken it, but they said I could start as soon as I want to.”

“That’s perfect for you!” she exclaimed, forcing her voice to be cheerful. “And lucky them, getting the very best salesman around.”

Pulling away, Jefferson looked down at her. “Look, you can tell me it’s none of my business, but...have you heard from Gold at all?”

“What? Why would I hear from him after I was indirectly responsible for defaming him and his company?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because they haven’t retaliated in any way, or because of the way he devours you with his eyes when you’re in the same room.”

“You’ve seen us in the same room exactly twice.”

“Right. My statement still stands.”

“It’s a small sample size.”

He shrugged. “It was obvious you were into each other, that’s all.”

She shook her head. “Pretty sure you were imagining things.”

“Fine, have it your way. If I see him around the store, then, I definitely shouldn’t mention you or pass on any messages.”

“Absolutely not,” Belle glared.

On Monday morning, Belle fought nausea as she entertained a crowd of customers all come to take advantage of the liquidation sale. They were buying books by the box, by the bag, by the wagonful, and she wanted to scream and cry and shake her fists at them, demand to know where their voracity for books had been when she needed their support and their business. She wanted to throw them all from the building, lock the doors and draw the blinds, and curl into a little ball in one of the armchairs and never leave.

Dozens of customers tried to console her, sharing their stories of spending full Saturdays in this shop, talking with her mother and discovering new friends and adventures within the pages of the books they’d grown to love. One man asked if the chairs were for sale. The bell at the door rang almost incessantly and though she looked for them she never saw the younger Golds - not that she’d really expected to, but she’d hoped. A woman asked Belle what she was going to do with herself, and Belle smiled and shrugged and pretended to be excited that her life as she knew it was ending.

At the end of the day she had never felt so exhausted in all her life - much too tired to take the long way home as she had done for weeks in order to avoid walking past Goldleaf. Trudging down the street that night, she stopped and looked in, acutely aware that she had never even set foot in the store. It looked bright and busy, and the glass doors slid apart with a quiet swoosh as she breached the enemy’s gates.

If she were honest with herself, it wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Creative displays were everywhere, and the decor was tasteful, if a little too modern in her opinion. The elegant sweeping staircase led her to the children’s section, which was teeming with youngsters reclining in beanbag chairs and stretched out on the floor, reading silently, listening to audiobooks, or sharing books between friends.

Sighing, Belle sank onto a tiny wooden chair and tried desperately not to cry. She closed her eyes and listened to the children reading and laughing and talking, and for a moment forgot that she hated everything this store stood for and that she resented its owner for putting her out of business.

“Excuse me, do you have the shoe books?” a woman’s querulous voice sounded behind her, and a man answered her uncertainly.

“The shoe books? Who’s the author?”

“I don’t know,” the woman sighed. “My friend said my daughter has to read the shoe books, so here I am.”

“Noel Streatfeild,” Belle said almost without thinking. She turned to face them. “Noel Streatfeild wrote  _ Ballet Shoes _ and  _ Skating Shoes _ and  _ Theater Shoes _ and  _ Dancing Shoes _ ...I’d start with  _ Ballet Shoes _ ; it’s my favorite. Although,” she felt her voice break, “ _ Skating Shoes _ is completely wonderful, but it’s out of print.” The tears were flowing fairly freely now.

“Streatfeild,” the young man repeated. “How do you spell that?”

She spelled it for him, and then rose hastily to her feet and staggered back down the stairs and out the door. God, if only this week could be over.

* * *

 

He would rather not, but Gold often had to drive past Avonlea Books on his way to work in the mornings. The day the “Closing” and “All Stock 40% Off” signs went up he felt a little devastated, and he spent the morning wishing he could go in, buy up half of her stock, and apologize until he was blue in the face. He did nothing.

Monday evening he was pacing the store when a familiar tumble of auburn curls had caught his eye in the children’s department and he nearly tripped over his own cane. What was she doing there? As far as he knew she’d never come to the store.

He listened to her conversation with the salesman and the customer and grimaced, recognizing that in some points she had been right. In terms of knowledge and service, she and her employees were far superior to the young people who worked the sales floor at Goldleaf, and while he would never regret helping young men and women to gain work experience, perhaps a bit of training and education wouldn’t go amiss. Jefferson would certainly be able to whip the young ones into shape.

Meanwhile, he missed his correspondence with Livreamour with an acuteness that sometimes almost morphed into actual pain. It had dropped off as it was bound to do in the face of his perceived abandonment, and he often spent half an hour at a time trying to formulate a message to her that would restore the unreserve of their previous letters without giving her the impression that another meeting could be attempted. It couldn’t. If she ever found out he was spinners_luck she would probably burn her laptop in protest. 

Neal had been shooting him ever more concerned looks since that fateful night at the cafe. A few well-timed interviews - Neal in front of the camera this time and not his father, in light of what an unmitigated disaster  _ that _ had been - and a “leak” of some of Goldleaf’s financial papers had cleared up any hint of scandal from Regina’s mud-slinging. It smarted a little that Neal could accomplish with a grin and a wink what Gold could not with cool logic and flawless reasoning, but that was the media, he supposed. It was also one of the many reasons Neal was an asset to the company.

He reminded himself of this when it became obvious that Neal was about to meddle. Everything came to a head the Wednesday night after he’d seen Belle French haunting his store with a face like a sheet and eyes like rain puddles. Neal was going home with him for dinner, Emma and Henry to meet them there, and because the universe hated Gold and wanted him to suffer, the elevator at his building got stuck on their way to the penthouse.

“So you really didn’t tell her,” Neal said when they’d ascertained that yes, they were stuck, and no, there was nothing they could do. They had maneuvered themselves onto the floor, and now Gold wished he’d taken the stairs, even with his bad ankle. It couldn’t have been as painful as this conversation was going to be.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it was obvious she didn’t want me there. I don’t think that would have changed if I’d thrown in ‘By the way, I’m your mysterious online correspondent.’”

“It might have.”

“No, you’re right. She would’ve refused to contact me ever again. That would have been a vast improvement.”

“Over what? Are you talking to her now?”

Gold sighed. “No.”

There was a moment of blessed silence, and then Neal shook his head. “Why do you jerk yourself around so much?” He frowned when his father laughed. “I mean it! You were nuts about her when she was your internet friend, and you had a thing for her when she was the Story Lady, and now that you know they’re the same person...you’re not still pretending that you’re not in love with her, are you?”

Gold leaned his head back against the wall of the elevator. “It doesn’t matter how I feel if she hates me,” he growled.

“Of course it does. Your feelings always matter. Why do you act like they don’t?”

“Because nothing can come of it. She doesn’t love me, and I don’t deserve her love.”

“First of all, she probably does love you - at least the online you. Second, love isn’t about deserving and earning and being worthy. If it was, no one would love anyone. Dammit, Papa, you  _ know _ that. You know she could love you. You just have to be brave enough to go find out.”

Gold shrugged. “All very well for you to say, but I’m a coward and always have been. We can’t change our natures.”

Neal shook his head sadly. “That sounds like something Grandfather would say. He was wrong, y’know. About pretty much everything, but especially you. You’re not a coward and you’re not useless. I wish you could believe it.” 

For a moment Gold stared at him, his eyes wide. Neal avoided his gaze and scrambled to his feet as the elevator began to move again. His boy held out his hand and helped him to his feet, and Gold was gripped with the urge to hold that hand tight and never let it go.

When dinner was over and his family had gone home, Gold sat at his computer and checked his email, as was now his habit. It had been almost a week since he’d heard from Belle, not that he blamed her at all for avoiding him, and so when her address appeared in his inbox his heart nearly leapt out of his chest. The subject line read “Change.”

_ People are always telling you that change is a good thing, but all they’re really saying is that something you didn’t want to happen at all has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store. Did I ever tell you that? It’s a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap. _

_ Soon, we’ll just be a memory. In fact, someone, some foolish person, will probably think it’s a tribute to this city, the way it keeps changing on you, the way you can never count on it, or something. I know, because that’s the sort of thing I’m always saying, but the truth is, I’m heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died, and my mother has died all over again, and no one can ever make it right. _

Gold wished he knew what to say, beyond the tired old platitudes. Perhaps there was nothing that he  _ could _ say. He had little experience with the sort of grief she was feeling: his mother’s death had happened too early in his life for him to have more than a vague memory of her hugs and kisses, and his relationship with his father had been problematic at the best of times. His death by cancer of the liver had almost been a relief to himself and everyone who knew him, and Gold more often felt guilt that he couldn’t mourn the old man the way a father should be mourned, than any real sorrow that he was gone.

After a few moments of thought, he began.

Perhaps the reason people say change is a good thing is that without change, we stagnate. We aren’t meant to stay exactly the same throughout our lives, and sometimes a change - even a negative one - is what we need to jar us out of complacency and into the business of living. My son reminded me of that today.

Have I ever told you I have a son? It’s one of those personal details we’ve striven to avoid, but you’ve been so brave and forthcoming that I feel compelled to reciprocate. He’s a wonderful boy, clever and kind and altogether too good to have come from the likes of me, though he would scold me for saying so. He’s the angel on my shoulder shouting down my demons.

We were estranged for a time, my desperation not to lose him ultimately creating the very circumstances that made it unbearable for him to stay. And while I hope we’ll never repeat that part of our history, I’ve learned that I  _ can _ survive if needs be. 

Losing something that we love is never pleasant or easy, and I regret with all my soul that you are suffering. I have every confidence, however, that you will not only survive this dark season but shine through it. You are one of the bravest people I know, and I am in awe of your strength and positivity. Just a little while longer, dearest friend, and one day the burdens and the darkness will seem lighter, and you will emerge with your light burning brighter and warmer than ever. ‘Til then, I’m always here.

* * *

 

**Friday**

The week had both flown and crawled by, and now it was her last day as proprietor of Avonlea Books. Belle went through the motions of selling and wrapping and talking and smiling mechanically, wondering if she would ever feel whole again. At long last the final book was sold, the final box taped, and the final dollar recorded in the register.

It was over. Avonlea Books was no more.

Belle stood at the counter and ran her fingers over the marble, gazing into the empty space and watching dust motes dance in the light from the streetlamps streaming through the windows. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and gripped the edge of the countertop as memories assailed her.

Her mother laughingly directing her father in the placement of tables and armchairs.

Her father teasing her mother about trying to hide her favorite books so that no one would buy them.

Her mother taking her hands and twirling her in circles, pretending they were princesses at a royal ball.

Afternoons after school spent in one of the armchairs devouring book after book.

Overwhelming joy and pride as her mother handed her a key to the store.

Her first window display, her mother beaming over it and declaring it “absolutely wonderful.”

The first customer who told her that her “mother would be proud” of what she’d done with the place.

She’d spent her whole life in this store, it seemed. Whether she wished to or not, it was time to move on. Belle opened her eyes and walked slowly around the store, bidding goodbye to each cherished spot. Taking the bell from above the door, she cast a final glance into the empty room and then shut the door firmly behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG the babies are SO SAD. Never fear, from here there's pretty much nowhere to go but up, right?
> 
> I love Neal so much. Can I adopt him? Pretty please?


	9. Chapter 8: Cold Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold reaches out when he hears Belle is sick. Belle blames the cold medicine for several things.

Thanksgiving at Granny’s that year was a bit strange. With the shop gone, they were all forced to talk about other things, and while Belle appreciated the opportunity to talk about literally anything other than her store closing, she hadn’t thought or talked about anything else for weeks. She really had nothing else to say, so she listened as her friends discussed their new lives.

“So this guy opens the bag and looks at his burger, looks back up at me, and says, ‘I told you I wanted it plain!’ I said, ‘Sir, it’s nothing but a burger patty and a bun, I can’t really make it plainer than that.’ So then, get this, he stands up, picks up the bag, walks to the door, turns around and just, like,  _ hurls _ it at me from across the room and starts screaming.”

“What did Granny do?” Grace asked, her eyes wide.

Ruby grinned. “You know that old crossbow she keeps under the counter?”

Grace nodded.

“She just pulled it out and put it on the counter, staring at him really hard. He ran out and we haven’t seen him since.”

“Daddy doesn’t get sandwiches thrown at him at his new job,” Grace pouted. “His stories are boring.”

“True,” Jefferson chuckled. “The most exciting it gets is when I have to police the preteens and their penchant for sneaking dirty magazines into their baskets when they think no one is looking.”

“So the new job is working out?” Belle asked, determined to be cheerful.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s no Avonlea, obviously, but Neal has pretty much given me free rein over my department. I get to staff it and train the employees, and things have really turned around.”

“Neal?”

“Mr. Gold the younger. He hates being called Mr. Gold, though - I guess he went by Neal Cassidy for a long time when he and his father were on the outs, and now he just makes us all call him Neal. Or Hey You. Anything but Mr. Gold, he says.”

Belle felt that something about that story sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what, exactly. “So he runs the store?”

“Yeah, Gold’s pretty busy with the corporate stuff so he’s got Neal managing for now. After the first of the year he’ll probably hire another store manager and go back to VPing.”

“What are you doing with yourself these days, Belle?” Granny asked, scooping a dollop of whipped cream onto a slice of pumpkin pie.

Belle shrugged and concentrated on her pie. “I’m looking into different jobs, but...I started writing again.”

“Really?” Ruby squealed.

“I didn’t have much time for it before, but now that’s pretty much all I have.”

“Can I read it, Aunt Belle?” Grace asked through a mouthful of pie.

“Chew, then talk,” Belle chided her gently. “And yes, you’ll be the first to read it when it’s done. You’re the target audience after all.”

“A children’s book? That’s perfect for you,” Jefferson grinned.

“I’m happy with it,” Belle said cautiously. “I haven’t felt this creative in a long time.”

The idea that something,  _ anything _ , pleasant had come out of her mother’s store closing was too surreal to be entertained long, so Belle asked Grace about school and the subject was dropped. Later, while they were washing the dishes, Ruby leaned close to her and whispered, “So how’s the digital Don Juan?”

“Still anonymous.”

“But you’re talking again?”

“Yes. Not as often, but  _ more. _ We’re revealing more. It’s been wonderful.”

“So there’s still hope? Maybe you’ll meet for real?”

“Maybe.”

At the end of the night Belle collected hugs from her friends and a kiss on the cheek from Granny and promised to see them all again before Christmas, which they alway spent together. As she walked home, her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.

* * *

Neal and Emma split the holidays between his family and hers, and this had been their year to have Thanksgiving with the Nolans. Gold hadn’t minded the solitude, especially in light of the fact that now in addition to Neal’s sad puppy face he had to put up with Emma’s pitying stare and Henry’s exasperated sighs. None of them could understand why he wasn’t standing under Belle’s window with flowers and chocolates, and he was tired of trying to explain. He spent more time at the new store than perhaps was strictly necessary, but at least there no one could corner him and give him a pep talk.

After Thanksgiving his visits to the store went down to once a week. Neal had everything well in hand and his new department managers were all excellent. Gold tried to pretend that his interest in the children’s department was purely professional, but one look at Mr. Bucket’s face let him know that he wouldn’t get away with the ruse.

“Swimmingly, swimmingly,” the man sang when Gold asked how his new job was working out. “I’ve decided to accept nothing less than a Ph.D. in children’s literature in my employees.”

Gold raised an eyebrow.

“Just kidding!”

“Right.”

Silence fell between them and Gold fidgeted, unsure how to discover what he really wanted to know without asking outright. He was wary of Bucket’s smile, too, which had grown to worrying proportions. He bit back a warning that if he wasn’t careful his face would freeze that way.

“Belle’s fine,” Jefferson finally offered.

“Oh. Good. Good thing.” Gold winced as the man chuckled.

“Look,” Jefferson said with an expression of innocence that had Gold instantly on his guard. “Would you do me a favor? Belle’s been feeling under the weather and she’s forbidden me to call her again. Could you stop by and check on her for me?”

There were so very many reasons that was an odd request, as well as a terrible idea. One, he was not Jefferson’s friend and therefore under no obligation to do him any sort of favor. Two, he wasn’t really  _ Belle’s _ friend either, as far as Jefferson knew, and could have no reason to care if she was sick. Three, Belle hated him and wouldn’t want him anywhere near her, unless she was contagious and could infect him. Four, only his family knew how he felt about Belle and unless they’d gone telling tales…

Gold realized he’d been silent an awfully long time. Bucket’s eyes were sparkling with restrained laughter and Gold rolled his eyes. “What’s so amusing, Hatter?”

Jefferson’s eyes widened at the nickname and he smirked. “Maybe take her some flowers? She likes…”

“Roses, I know,” Gold groused, stalking away with the madman’s laughter ringing in his ears.

* * *

Belle was very much looking forward to watching bad television in bed until she dozed off into a cold-medicine-induced coma. The worst of the cold was over but she was still stuffy and sneezy and at least three other disgusting things. Snuggling down under her covers, she admitted to herself that it was nice not to have to spend the day worrying about the store in her absence.

The ring of the buzzer startled her so much that she wondered if she’d imagined it, but when it sounded again she shoved her blankets aside and padded to the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Roderick Gold.”

Belle froze, her mouth open and her finger hovering over the button. What in the world...Why?

“May I come up?” The blasted crackling intercom made him sound  _ nervous _ , of all things.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “I have a cold and I’m not really awake. I could get you sick.”

A short pause. “I’m willing to risk it.”

Okay, but  _ why? _ She guessed there was only one way to find out, and she was nothing if not curious. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

She buzzed him in and rushed around the apartment, tossing on a robe and throwing all her crumpled tissues in the bin. When his knock sounded she was a little flushed and breathless, but what could he expect? She opened the door and crossed her arms, frowning in annoyance. Why did he always have to see her at her worst?

“What are you doing here?” She was trying to snap, but her stuffy nose and sore throat weren’t cooperating. She just sounded whiny.

He looked sheepish. “I heard you were sick and I wanted to - is someone here?”

“Daytime soaps.” A shrill voice from the living room shrieked, “ _ You slept with  _ **_my daughter!_ ** ” Gold’s lips twitched.

“Not one for the Home Shopping Network?”

“Not really.” Belle put a hand to her forehead. “Did you come here to gloat?”

“No.”

“Then, why…”

“I brought you flowers,” he blurted, extending the bouquet she hadn’t noticed until then. It was gorgeous, a dozen white and pale pink rosebuds, and Belle felt herself melt a little. It was horribly cliche, but everything else aside, a handsome man had shown up at her door with roses, and she was only human.

“Oh. Thank you.” She reached for them, but he drew back.

“I could...put them in water for you?” He sounded nervous again, and this time she couldn’t blame it on poor sound quality. Wordlessly she stepped back to allow him in and followed him to the kitchen, switching off the TV as they went. He examined the kettle on the stove and glanced at her. “Tea?”

“Sure.”

He turned on the flame and put the kettle on. “Vases?”

“Top left.”

“You’re not well,” he muttered. “You should sit.”

Belle sat at the table, watching him putter around her kitchen as if he belonged there. This was easily the strangest thing to happen to her in months, and that was saying something.

“Do you have kitchen shears?” he asked.

“Drawer by the sink.”

“Jefferson says hello,” he called over running water and the snipping of stems. “He’s the one who told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“He likes Goldleaf.” Meddling little busybody. “Did he try to freak you out with his Ph.D. requirement?”

“He did. I’m not easily freaked out.” Gold placed the vase of roses on the table, turning it a few times and rearranging the flowers until he was satisfied with the result. Belle bit down a smile, but he noticed and shrugged self-consciously. “I like things to look nice.”

He was ruthless, Belle reminded herself. Heartless. Cruel, even. But he was standing in her kitchen steeping tea and offering honey and reaching out now and then to nudge a bloom into place and it was getting hard to ignore the fact that she was attracted to him. Very, very attracted.

Damn cold medicine.

“That vase is lovely,” he said as he took a seat at the table. “An antique, isn’t it? Early 1900s?”

“Yes, handed down from my great-grandmother. How did you know that?”

“I, uh…” he paled a little. “I watch Antiques Roadshow now and then.”

“Oh. I have a friend who’s really into antiques. I never really cared much for them myself, except for family pieces. He’s the friend I was waiting for at the cafe when I saw you and I was…”

“Charming.”

Belle snorted. “I was not charming.”

“Well, you looked charming,” he muttered into his mug, his cheeks reddening.

Belle rolled her eyes and fought her own blush. “I was horrible.”

“ _ I _ was horrible.”

“True, but _I_ have no excuse.” She picked up her tea and her roses and moved into the living room where she could sit on the softer sofa and enjoy the white and pink blossoms in the sunlight.

“Ah,” he said, following her, “whereas _I_ am a horrible person and have no choice but to be horrible, is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh, God, I did it again,” she groaned, clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I promised myself I was done saying awful things, even to people like you.”

He smiled more widely and Belle squeaked in mortification, burying her face in a throw pillow. Damn cold medicine! When she pulled the pillow away from her face, his smile had disappeared and his expression was somber.

“I put you out of business. You’re entitled to hate me.”

He sounded so mournful that Belle felt a twinge of regret in spite of herself. “I don’t hate you.”

“But you’ll never forgive me.”

Belle hunched her shoulders and hugged her pillow. She couldn’t contradict him, which hurt. She didn’t like being at odds with people. After a beat, he said softly,

“It wasn’t personal. It was…”

“Business,” she finished for him. “What is that supposed to mean? I am so  _ sick _ of that! All it means is it’s not personal to  _ you _ . But it was personal to me. It was personal to a lot of people.” Gold nodded, his eyes downcast. “I mean, whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.” 

They sat in silence for a minute. Belle felt drowsiness hit her and she set her pillow aside, reaching for her roses. “Why did you stop by? I forget.” She shuffled into her bedroom and set the roses on her bedside table.

“I wanted to be your friend,” he said from the doorway.

“Oh.” She sat heavily on the bed in her surprise.

“I knew it wasn’t possible.” He turned his cane in his hands. “What can I say? Sometimes a man wants the impossible.” For a moment she thought he would go, but he took a step into the room. “May I ask you something?”

“What?”

“What happened with the man at the cafe?”

Oh, he had to rub salt in this wound, didn’t he? “Nothing.”

“But...you’re mad about him.”

“Yes. I am,” Belle admitted with a sigh. His eyes flashed briefly with an emotion she couldn’t identify, and he swallowed.

“Then why not run off with him? What are you waiting for?”

She blinked at him. “I - I don’t actually know him?” she squeaked. She buried her face in her pillows.

“Really.”

“We only know each other -" she rose and put her hands over her face. "Oh, God, you’re not going to believe this…”

“Let me guess,” he smirked. “From the internet.”

“Yes,” Belle groaned.

“Anonymity. Lack of reserve. Nothing but potential. Heady stuff.”

“Ye-es.”

Gold inched to the edge of the bed and sat next to her. “Well. I’m happy for you. Although, if I may make a suggestion, I think you should meet him.” His eyes searched hers. “Unless you’re afraid.”

“Afraid? I’m not afraid, you…”

Gold leaned toward her, one long finger pressing to her lips, and Belle felt her heart stutter in her chest. “I concede that I bring out the worst in you,” he said, his brogue thick and low, “so let me help you not to say something that you’ll just torture yourself over for years to come.”

Belle stared at him with wide eyes, her breath quickening and her heart racing, until he pulled away. She could still feel the pressure of his skin on hers and she resisted the urge to lick her lips. He gazed at her a second longer and then stood with some difficulty.

“I hope you feel better soon. It would be a shame to miss Christmas in New York.”

“Thank you for the roses.” Belle wasn’t sure how she’d spoken so steadily, but she was thankful.

“You’re welcome.”

She heard him walk through the flat and let himself out, and she slumped against her pillows with a sigh. They’d spent the first half of his visit exploring why she should hate him and the last half talking about another man, so why was it  _ his _ touch she was imagining on her skin,  _ his _ voice in her ear, and  _ his _ lips on hers? She rolled herself up in her blankets and covered her head with a pillow.

Damn cold medicine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joe Fox tricking/bulldozing his way into Kathleen's apartment when she was sick never really sat well with me. Like, dude, she said no. She's sick and feeling vulnerable. She asked you to go away. Going up anyway and forcing your way in is not cool.
> 
> Of course, Gold continuing not to tell Belle that he's her online friend is also not cool, but one step at a time. She'll get to have her say about that, never fear.
> 
> Anecdote Time: The story about the plain hamburger is true (minus the crossbow). It happened to me when I worked at a Hardee's in high school. It was the first time I ever had something thrown at me in a workplace but not, alas, the last.


	10. Chapter 9: Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma gives Gold advice. Gold is set up. Belle makes a discovery.

_ I’ve been thinking about this, and I think we should meet. _

We should and we will, but not yet. I’m in the middle of a project that requires my undivided attention.

Gold hadn’t felt this particular type of anticipation in a long time. Belle liked - perhaps even loved - his online persona, and she had not been completely repulsed by him in person. Her body language, actually, had suggested the opposite; he wasn’t so out-of-touch that he couldn’t recognize physical attraction. If he could bridge the gap, persuade her that the two halves made up a desirable whole, he might actually have a chance.

“There’s a smile we haven’t seen in awhile.” Gold wiped his face clean of all expression and looked up at his daughter-in-law as she leaned against his study door. “Henry went straight to his room. You probably won’t see him all night; he loves that Xbox.”

“I’m making lasagna, so I imagine he’ll emerge at some point.”

“Seriously?” Emma sighed. “Is it too late for me to cancel our reservation and pretend I forgot to make it? Your lasagna is incredible.”

“I’ll box up some leftovers for you.”

“Not the same.”

Gold smiled. His relationship with Emma had had a rocky start, but her devotion to his son and grandson - though rather roughly expressed - had won him over. She had been less easily impressed, but she seemed to like him well enough now. She liked his cooking, at least.

“So I’m guessing things are looking up on the Belle front.” Emma came a little farther into the room.

“Perhaps, but I’d guess you knew that already.”

“Neal keeps me in the loop.” She paused and stared at him form a moment, her green-eyed gaze piercing. “Can I give you some advice, Papa?”

Oh, she was learning to play him as skillfully as the others did. Emma rarely called him Papa, despite his asking her to do so on a yearly basis - the closest she usually came was “Pops.” To date, “Papa” had only made an appearance twice: once when she was drunk on New Year’s Eve and once the hideous night their boys had been in a car accident. She knew very well he’d grant her almost anything she asked if “Papa” was invoked, which was probably why she avoided it.

“Of course, dear.”

“Neal said you hadn’t told Belle who you were. You really should.”

“I will.”

“Soon,” she insisted. “The longer you draw this out, the worse it’ll be. Remember what happened at the Delmar party.”

“I will, Emma,” Gold said more firmly.

“Secrets always come out. If she has to find out on her own, it will not be pretty. Trust me on this.”

“What did Neal leave for you to find out?”

Emma smiled tightly. “You.”

“Oh.” Gold was stymied. “You...didn’t know about me?”

“I knew about the  _ concept _ of you: the controlling, manipulative father he loved but had to get away from. I didn’t know your name, or that you were who you were. I was pretty spooked when I found out Neal Cassidy was actually Baeden Gold.”

“How did you find out?”

“Unearthing secrets is my job. He let a few too many things slip and I did what I do best.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Well, for instance, did you know his accent comes back now and then?”

Gold grinned. “Does it really? When?”

Emma hesitated. “I’m not sure you want to know.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, the point is he couldn’t keep it a secret forever, and I would have been less furious if he’d told me to begin with.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Neal appeared in the doorway just then. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Your accent,” Emma grinned at him.

Neal blushed to the roots of his hair. “Wow, look at the time, they’re gonna give our table away. G’night, Papa, thanks for watching Henry.”

“‘Night, son.” Gold chuckled as Neal dragged Emma out of the study. He would tell Belle, he repeated to himself. Just not quite yet.

* * *

“Will you stop pacing?” Neal groaned. “This carpet is brand new, y’know.” With a grunt of apology Gold slumped into an armchair. “And stop checking your email, you’re driving yourself insane.”

Gold looked up from his phone and scowled at his son, who glared back. Their gazes locked and held until Neal’s phone chimed and he glanced away to check it. Gold took the opportunity to look at his own, but soon found it snatched out of his hands. “What…”

“Get out, Papa,” Neal said. “Go get a coffee or something.”

“A coffee.”

“At the Starbucks around the corner.”

“We have coffee downstairs.”

“You need to get out of here and get some fresh air, so go to Starbucks. Now. Bring me back a cake pop.”

“Give that back.” Feeling like a child, Gold reached for his phone, but Neal held it out of reach. He had a good six inches on his father, so Gold could do nothing but stand and fume.

“Forget the phone, forget your email, and go for a walk. Go to Starbucks and get a coffee. You can have your phone when you get back.”

“Baeden Neal Gold!”

“Go. Now.”

Gold stood staring open-mouthed at his son, who smirked and walked back to his desk, tossing the phone into a drawer and locking it. Growling, Gold stalked from the room and the store, determined to head straight to the nearest electronics store to purchase a new phone. What had gotten into Neal? How could he taunt his own father that way…

His thoughts and feet came to a screeching halt outside the Starbucks around the corner. At a table by the window, nursing a mug and entirely engrossed in a thick novel, sat Belle French. Gold’s mouth went dry and he could hear his blood roaring in his veins. As if she could hear the thundering of his heart, Belle looked up and met his gaze, her lips curling in a tentative smile. He lifted one hand and smiled back.

Perhaps a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt.

He approached the doors, aware of her eyes on him, and nodded to the young man who held the door for him. Belle had closed her book by the time he reached her table.

“May I join you?” he asked. “Neal’s exiled me from the store, I’m afraid.”

“Sure,” she said with a bemused smile.

He ordered a coffee and took it to Belle’s table, noticing as he sat that she looked a little nervous.

“Are you sure you don’t mind me joining you?” he asked. He was uncomfortably aware that the last time they’d been in this situation he’d been less than gracious.

“It’s fine,” she said hastily. “How’s Henry? I’ve missed seeing him around.”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s into dinosaurs now, devours every book he can get his hands on.”

“Good.” She looked down at the mug in her hands.

“And you? You’re well?”

“Oh! Yeah, thanks, much better.” She smiled shyly. “Those roses really did the trick.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest and he looked down to hide what must surely be a dopey grin. “Good book?” he asked, gesturing to the behemoth between them.

“Yeah,  _ The Brothers Karamazov _ . It’s been awhile, but I felt like giving it another go.” She turned the mug in her hands. “I have a lot more time for reading these days.”

Right. Gold fought the urge to squirm. After a few seconds she seemed to snap out of a reverie. “I’m writing, too, though, and that’s been amazing.”

“Oh?”

“A children’s book - I have a few publisher friends who’ve wanted me to try for a long time.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

Belle blushed and smiled, taking a sip of her coffee.

“And your, uh, online friend? Any news on that front?”

“Not, uh...no, not exactly...I mean, not really.”

Gold raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, so...so I asked him to meet, and he said - it was a little strange. He said he had a project that needed his attention.”

“Perhaps he’s busy and wants to make sure he can focus on you when you meet.”

“Maybe. It kind of felt like a blow-off, to be honest.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

Belle sighed. “It was his idea to meet in the first place - I don’t know why it feels like pulling teeth now. Maybe...I mean, it’s silly, but I just can’t shake the feeling that he saw me that night and was so disappointed that he changed his mind.”

“No,” Gold said firmly.

“But…”

“Trust me, Miss French, no man could show up to a blind date, see you, and be disappointed. That is completely outside the realm of possibility.”

She bit her lip uncertainly. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Hm?” He dragged his gaze up from her mouth and back to her eyes.

“Miss French. You’re always calling me that.”

“Ah. Old habits, I suppose.”

“You can call me Belle, y’know. You said you wanted to be friends, after all.”

His pulse sped up. “Very well. Belle.” 

“And...um...what should I call you?” She was blushing again and he wasn’t sure how he was going to leave this encounter with his dignity intact if she kept doing that. “Surely your friends don’t call you Mr. Gold.”

“Don’t have many friends, dearie.” She stared at him for a few seconds with large, sad eyes, and he felt his will bending to hers. “Roderick, then,” he conceded.

She grinned. “Not Roddy?” Actually, he realized, he didn’t give a damn what name she used. She could call him Rumplestiltskin and he would be hers to command.

“Never been called that before,” he muttered. “Except the once.”

“Why was he torturing you?” Belle teased. “Did you keep all the best Halloween candy for yourself?”

“He wasn’t trying to torture me,” Gold said in defense of his grandson.

“Really?”

“He was...uh…” How had they arrived at this topic, again? He was blushing so deeply he could feel his face growing warm. She lifted her eyebrows, her eyes dancing. “I mean, he…”

Belle’s phone, sitting next to her book on the table, chimed, and she glanced down. “Sorry, it’s Jefferson. He was supposed to meet me for coffee but one of his employees called in sick and he had to cover. He’s just said he won’t be able to make it at all.”

Something clicked in Gold’s head and he eyed her phone warily. “Do you often meet here?”

“No, today would have been the first time. Jeff said he was tired of the lattes at the Tea Leaf - no offense.”

It had been a setup, Gold realized. Jefferson and Neal were in cahoots; it was the only explanation for Neal’s behavior. Those conniving, scheming,  _ brilliant _ boys.

“So...what was Henry trying to do? When he talked you into getting your hand painted?”

Oh, honestly. What was she, a bloody pit bull? He huffed, and reminded himself that he  _ was _ trying to woo her, after all. “He was trying his hand at matchmaking.”

Belle’s eyes widened and he thought he heard her breath catch. “Oh.”

“Of course, he didn’t know about your friend.”

“My...friend?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Kind, Funny, Wonderful Sense of Humor?”

“Oh! Right. Him.” She smiled wanly. “Mr. No Show.”

“Mr. Unavoidably Detained.”

“Mr. Stringing Me Along.”

“Mr. Waiting for the Right Moment.”

“Of course you’re defending him,” Belle sighed, but her smile was a little brighter. “But be honest - would  _ you _ make a date with a woman you’d been talking to for months and then just ...not show up?”

Well, there was a question he could answer with perfect honesty. “No.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Y’know, I believe that,” she said softly.

“Belle,” he leaned forward and put a hand on hers, “he has a reason for what happened that night, you may be sure. No man is perfect, and his plans must simply have gone a-gley, as the best-laid schemes often do. It’ll all turn out right in the end, you’ll see. He won’t have given up on you so easily, not if he truly cares for you.”

Her eyes had grown very wide and her smile had faded; her hand twitched under his and...was it his imagination, or was she breathing more quickly? Her tongue flicked across her lips as her eyes dropped slightly from his, and he wondered fuzzily if he should confess all now. He drew a steadying breath, but she blinked suddenly and looked at his hand as if just noticing its position. Snatching her hand back, she picked up her book and stood abruptly.

“I’m sorry, I...I have to go,” she said unsteadily. “I’m meeting Ruby later and...it was nice bumping into you, Mr. - Roderick.”

He’d never much cared for his first name, but he loved hearing it on her lips. “Would you care to bump into me tomorrow?” he asked before she could scurry away. “I’m sure Neal will get sick of me around the same time.”

Her eyes met his and she smiled, some of the nervous tension ebbing away. “Yeah, sure. I’m always up for a cup of coffee with a friend.”

“‘Til tomorrow, then.”

She gave a little wave and walked out, and Gold smiled.

Tomorrow. He would definitely tell her tomorrow.

* * *

“That must have been one big cup of coffee.”

Gold grunted at his son and tossed the paper bag containing two chocolate cake pops at the boy’s head. Neal caught it easily and took a bite out of one of the treats, somehow managing to smirk and chew at the same time. Planting his cane in front of him and folding his hands on the handle, Gold glared pointedly at his son.

“What? Oh, your phone. Right. Here.” Neal unlocked the desk drawer, fished out the device and tossed it to his father. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“The theatrics weren’t necessary,” Gold grumbled. “You could have just said.” He mimicked Neal’s American accent - which, admittedly, he wasn’t very good at it. Neal was much better at imitating him. “‘Papa, the love of your life is around the corner having coffee by herself, go chat her up.’”

Neal froze in the act of inhaling his second cake pop and stared at Gold with alarmingly large eyes.

“What’s wrong? Are you choking?”

Neal shook his head and swallowed. “Is she really?”

Gold raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“The love of your life. Is she?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“So...you told her.”

“No, not yet. Tomorrow.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “Papa…”

“Tomorrow, Neal. We’re meeting for coffee again and I am going to tell her. I promise.”

* * *

Belle felt as if her brain were a pond and someone invisible had been throwing tiny pebbles into it all day. Since her last email from spinners_luck she felt as if there was something she ought to know or remember that was just eluding her. The ripples in her brain could help her recall if only she could figure out where the pebbles were coming from and who was throwing them.

Coffee with Go - Roderick had only intensified the feeling. Nearly everything he said seemed like an echo of something she’d heard before, or as if she knew the words but they’d been spoken by someone else in a previous lifetime. Words and phrases and feelings from the last few weeks were swirling in her head and she couldn’t make sense of them or understand their connections to each other.

Trying to ground herself, Belle opened the folder in which she’d saved her emails from spinners_luck and began to read through them, but the sense of deja vu only intensified. Were there clues here to his identity that she hadn’t noticed? She grabbed a pen and paper and sat down to detail things she knew about her mysterious penpal.

  1. He was Scottish. That was evident from some of his vocabulary and turns of phrase, not to mention his use of the Gaelic name for Halloween.
  2. He was a businessman, and a rather ruthless one at that.
  3. He was intelligent and eloquent, with a real talent for the written word.
  4. He had a son from whom he’d been estranged.
  5. He loved antiques.
  6. He had a weakness for chocolate.



Belle sat and stared at her list for several minutes, her mind whirring and her heart pounding. Involuntarily she glanced at her bedside table, where her roses, now in full bloom, still sat in her great-grandmother’s vase. She smiled remembering Roderick’s visit and his fussiness about the flowers, and his asking about the time period of the vase…

Her brain ground to a halt and she gaped open-mouthed at the vase.

No. No, surely not. She looked back at her list and checked it against what she knew about Roderick Gold. The first two items were him to a tee, there was no denying that. She’d talked with him enough to know that he could craft a handsome phrase when he wished, and Jefferson had told her about his strained relationship with Neal over Thanksgiving. He’d recognized her great-grandmother’s antique vase. The only thing she wasn’t sure about was whether he liked chocolate, but that was really neither here nor there at this point.

He’d been at the cafe, Belle thought dizzily. He’d  _ known _ . And today he’d sat across from her and assured her of spinners_luck’s affection and good intentions, his hand warm and his eyes affectionate and his voice velvety, and she’d been entranced. Belle shook her head, closed her laptop with a snap, and went into the kitchen, rifling through her mother’s recipe box.

She had one final test to administer. Tomorrow, the truth would out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neal. Is that any way to treat your father?
> 
> OMG GOLD WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL HER you silly man. 
> 
> What nefarious plan is Belle hatching?
> 
> I know this chapter is a few days later than the others, but between subbing, retailing, and two tutoring gigs I've worked more or less nonstop for three days and I am completely punch-drunk. If I get enough sleep I might even be able to write another chapter tomorrow but who knows. Not me.
> 
> (I could write Neal and Gold together for days.)


	11. Chapter 10: The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a plan.

Belle had a plan. It was a good plan - a great plan, even, and she was very proud of it. She clutched her purse a little more tightly to her body as she headed for the Starbucks where she’d agreed to meet Roderick for another cup of coffee. The plan was sure to work, and she would know by the end of the afternoon how she was going to approach this situation.

As she neared the shop, however, she saw that Roderick was already there, seated at the table near the window with a book open before him. Intellectually, of course, she’d known that Roderick read; she’d sold him the volume of Burns he was currently reading, and Jefferson had told her about the _Alice_ incident at the Halloween party. Actually watching him read, however, was doing things to her insides that were more unexpected than unpleasant, and forcing several observations upon her that she could probably have done without.

For one thing, he read with a severe intensity that took her breath away, a not-quite-frown etched into the planes and angles of his face, his eyes not straying from the page even when an employee swept by him to clean the next table over. For another, the early afternoon sun was streaming into the window and bathing his face and silver-shot hair in golden light, and _God_ , he was gorgeous. She’d thought so when she first met him in her shop, and even throughout their tumultuous association she had never been able to pretend that she found him unattractive. But his good looks were really beside the point, Belle thought firmly, reminding herself of the plan. She was here to uncover information, not ogle. She shook her head and advanced on the coffee shop, determined to see this through to the end.

He looked up and gave her a tentative, crooked smile as she entered, and dammit, there he went again, being incredibly bloody handsome when she needed to stay focused. He actually rose to his feet and held her chair for her, asked what she wanted, and went to the counter to order her vanilla latte before she thought to protest. Was this a date? Why did it feel like a date?

Shaking her head to clear it, Belle set her bag gingerly on the floor and smiled at him when he returned with her drink. He asked after her book, and she spent a few minutes talking about that until she realized that he hadn’t said anything in awhile and he wasn’t really making eye contact anymore. For a moment she wondered if she’d bored him, but then she licked some of the vanilla flavoring off her lips and his jaw twitched just the tiniest bit. Nope, not bored, she thought smugly. His eyes darted up to hers guiltily and she raised her eyebrows.

“Ah...sorry, what was the question?”

There hadn’t been a question. Belle bit her lip to fight her grin and his eyes flickered down again before darting away to a corner of the table, his face beginning to flush.

“I was going to take a walk, since it’s kind of mild out,” Belle said. “Care to join me?”

He looked at her again, and for the teensiest moment Belle almost softened towards him, he looked so hopeful. “I’d like that,” he replied, standing and offering her a hand out of her chair, which was a completely unnecessary and utterly adorable gesture that had Belle’s heart fluttering.

_Stop that. Remember the plan._

They ordered coffees to go to warm their hands and walked a block or so in companionable silence, approaching Theodore Roosevelt Park, and Belle, having finished her coffee in record time, took a breath to put her plan in motion. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why were you at Cafe Lalo that night?”

He came to an abrupt halt and looked at her warily. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t seem like your kind of place, and I was curious.”

“I was...meeting someone.” He started walking again, avoiding her eyes.

“Oh. So were you stood up too?”

“No, no. I...I met her. It didn’t really go as well as I’d hoped.”

“Anyone I know?”

His eyes searched her face and she kept her expression as neutral as possible. “Perhaps.”

“Who?”

He was silent.

“Aren’t you going to drink your coffee?” she asked when it became evident he wasn’t going to say anything.

“Ah...” he looked at the cup he hadn’t sipped from. “I suppose I needed the warmth more than anything.”

“Can I have it then?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “What happened to your own coffee?”

“I finished it.”

“How did you do that?” he asked, gaping. “It was about a thousand degrees!”

She shrugged. “I like coffee.”

“Well, so do I.”

Belle’s heart beat a little faster. “How about a trade?”

“A trade? You want to make a deal with me?” He stopped and loomed over her, grinning wolfishly, and she swallowed, forcing herself to concentrate. She had a plan, and it didn’t involve making out with him on the sidewalk.

“Your coffee for one of these.” And she reached into her bag and pulled out a baggie containing her secret weapon. “Triple fudge brownie.”

Roderick eyed the brownie with ill-concealed interest. “That’s a, uh, very tempting deal, dearie,” he said huskily.

“Isn’t it?” Belle grinned, swinging the bag in front of him. She watched in fascination as his eyes darkened and his jaw clenched.

“Do you always carry baked goods with you?” His attempt at nonchalance wasn’t very convincing, considering that he was still watching the brownie like a cat after a moth.

“I was baking last night and I made a bit too much, and I thought I’d bring some in case we got peckish. So what do you say? Deal?”

He reached a tentative hand towards the brownie. She pulled it out of his reach and she could swear he almost growled, which would have been funny if she wasn’t feeling so sad all of a sudden. The teasing had been fun right up until the second she realized that she’d been right.

“It _is_ you, isn’t?” she whispered. “You’re spinners_luck.”

All chocolate-lust vanished from his face and was replaced by an odd mixture of remorse and relief. “The chocolate gave me away, did it?”

“No. A hundred little things did; the chocolate was just the final test.” Feeling very small and sad, Belle shoved the brownie back in her purse, wrapped herself in her arms, and sat on a bench nearby. “Did you know the whole time?”

“Not the whole time, no.”

“How long?”

“Since Lalo.” He sat on the bench too, a respectful distance away. “I had Neal with me. He spotted you, and…” he shrugged.

“You came in anyway. Why? To have a good chuckle at the pathetic girl sitting there waiting for no one?”

“Of course not,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I was...I don’t know. At first I was angry about the press debacle, but then - I just wanted to know you.”

“You should have told me,” Belle said flatly, glad when he winced at her tone.

“I know. I was afraid to. I knew if you knew who I was you would never speak to me again.”

“And you didn’t think I had the right to make that decision?” Her voice rose as her anger grew. “You’ve been lying to me for weeks! All that crap about projects and attention and - and - what kind of game was this, Gold?” She studied him as he sat with hunched shoulders, staring morosely at the ground, and ruthlessly tamped down any pity she might feel.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry I lied to you, and I’m sorry I put you out of business. I’m sorry that I have to keep apologizing to you.” He rose from the bench, avoiding her eyes. “I should have respected your wishes and let you alone. I won’t contact you again.” He began to walk away, but Belle wasn’t finished.

“Wait!” she called, following him. He turned to face her, planting his cane in front of him and looking for all the world like he expected her to hit him. “If you’ve known since Lalo, why did you seek me out? You brought me roses - you bought me coffee - why?”

Gold stared at her, the question apparently taking him wholly by surprise. “I thought that was obvious,” he said. “Surely you - you didn’t think it was all one-sided, did you? You had to know - you must have suspected that spinners_luck was utterly besotted with Livreamour.”

“Yeah, I - I gathered that much,” Belle blushed. “But how did you get past it? How did you come to terms with the fact that Livreamour was me?”

He was staring at her as if she’d suddenly started speaking in tongues. “There was - there was nothing to come to terms with, Belle. To tell you the truth, I was barely surprised. Of course it was you; who else could it be?”

Oh, right. She crossed her arms. “So you had absolutely no issue with finding yourself in love with someone you didn’t even like?”

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

There were no words for his emotions just then. He was fairly certain he was feeling all of them at once and was about to suffer a stroke. “What do you mean?” he asked weakly when he felt he could speak without his voice cracking. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”

“Do you always put the people you like out of business?”

“God, Belle,” he groaned. “I know you’re tired of hearing it wasn’t personal, but I did not actually choose the site for Goldleaf with the sole intention of hurting you. I didn’t even _meet_ you until the foundation and frame were already in place. What was I supposed to do after discovering that one of the shop owners on the block was a hauntingly beautiful woman I would have done anything to get to know? Was I to stop construction? Put dozens of people out of work? Go to you personally and ask your permission to open a bookstore?”

“You could have acted like you cared,” Belle said stonily. “Like you were even a little concerned about costing me my livelihood and my memories.”

“I did care. I didn't know how to show it, but I did.”

Belle hugged her arms tight to her body and avoided his eyes.

“You actually hated me, didn’t you?” he said sadly. “I never stood a chance.”

She shrugged.

“Look.” He stepped closer to her. “It was bad timing. Lousy, awful, terrible timing. But...if I hadn’t been Goldleaf and you hadn’t been Avonlea, and we’d just...met one day...would it have changed anything?”

She raised wide eyes to his. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” he said firmly. “I would have asked for your number. I would have called you that night and asked you to dinner...a movie...drinks...coffee...” he waved one arm in a hopeless gesture, “...for as long as we both shall live.”

“Roderick,” she whispered, “don’t.”

The pressure in his chest was almost unbearable. “We would never have been at war. We would have had normal little arguments about where to eat and what movie to see and whether Burns is preferable to Blake.”

Her lips were pressed into a thin line and she looked ready to cry. “Blake,” she squeaked, and he smiled sadly.

“You were ready to forgive spinners_luck for standing you up,” he pointed out. “You hadn’t even met him yet, and you were prepared to be with him despite the fact that he’d hurt you. I wish…” He paused and stepped even closer, so that he could feel the warmth of her body and see her breath in the air. It took every ounce of his self-control not to take her hands. “Oh, how I _wish_ that you could forgive me.”

He couldn’t stand to look into her tear-filled eyes one second longer, lest his own spill over and completely humiliate him, so he looked away. Though he waited in silence for several seconds, she said nothing, and he nodded, gripping his cane tight. “Goodbye, Belle,” he murmured, and he turned and walked away, his heart breaking a little more with each step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaaahhhh this chapter almost gave me hives, I swear.
> 
> Real Talk: It's hard to write this because by necessity I side with both of them - I couldn't write them if I didn't. Belle's store was important to her because it was her last tangible link to her mother and she'd been there for years. But it's not like Gold had a map of the area and was deliberately searching for the part of town where he could put the most stores out of business, while twirling his mustache and swimming in pools of money.
> 
> So yes, I'm heartbroken for Belle because she loved her store and she has start over and that kind of thing is terrifying and difficult, but at the same time I just want her to give Gold a break because it's not like he browbeat people into shopping at his store instead of hers.
> 
> TL;DR: Can these two idiots just admit they're hopeless for each other and put me out of my misery already?


	12. Chapter 11: Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle gets some distance and some perspective, and things might finally be looking up.

For three weeks Belle threw everything she had into writing her book. Sometimes she worked well into the night, even into the wee hours of the morning, writing and revising and polishing until she was thoroughly exhausted. When she could no longer keep her eyes open she would fall into her bed - sometimes without bothering to change into pajamas - and sleep like the dead. She told herself that she was grateful her correspondence with Gold had come to an end; it had taken up time and energy that were better spent on her book, and she was sure that after another week she would no longer feel the urge to check her email account. It might take a little longer to respond with complete indifference when Jefferson mentioned seeing him around the store, and it would take even longer to stop composing messages to him or imagining his responses. It would take her damn near forever to forget the expression on his face and the tone of his voice when he’d said goodbye.

It was a goodbye he’d apparently meant in the fullest sense. He’d made no further attempt to contact her and seemed to be avoiding her neighborhood and friends like the plague - which was somehow simultaneously exactly what she wanted and the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Despite everything - and she knew she was being contradictory - she missed her friend and wanted to talk to him. Jefferson and Ruby were wonderful, but they didn’t know her the way he did. As horribly unfair as it was, she felt the only person who could help her make sense of her feelings was the one person with whom she couldn’t discuss them.

All things considered, she’d decided to go back to Sydney for the Christmas holidays. Distance from the city would do her good and help her gain some perspective, and she would probably be too busy to think about the romance that had ended before it even began. Maurice was positively over the moon when she called and told him her plans, and as the week before Christmas neared she began to be excited herself - really excited, not just relieved or anxious to be gone. She hadn’t been home in years.

Her little circle met for a gift exchange at Jefferson’s apartment the day before her flight home. When the gifts had been opened, the paper disposed of and the wine about half drunk, Grace went to bed and the adults draped themselves on the sofa and enjoyed the silence.

“When are you coming home?” Ruby asked drowsily.

“After New Years.”

“Oh,” her friend pouted.

“What? Did you have something planned?”

“No, I just...I don’t know. I guess I thought things between you and Gold might be fixed before then, y’know? Or maybe there’d be this big reconciliation in Times Square when the ball dropped. Like a romcom.”

Belle snorted. “We aren’t living in a movie, Ruby, and there’s nothing to fix. We’re not talking and we aren’t together. It’s over, and I’m...I’m fine.”

“You are not, and neither is he,” Jefferson muttered. “Poor guy looks like someone hit him with a bus. Then backed up and drove over him again.”

“Oh, stop exaggerating. He’s a grown man, not some lovesick teenager.”

“No, he’s definitely not a teenager.”

“And I am fine.”

“You miss him,” Ruby yawned, “we all know that, so stop acting like you don’t.”

“Of course I do, but I’ll get over it. We’ll both get over this and move on.”

Their combined pitying stares were too much for her, and after finishing the last of her wine she excused herself and went home, determined to spend her last few hours in New York doing anything but thinking about Gold and the fact that he was apparently _lovesick_ over her. She had packing to do, after all.

* * *

The gentle warmth of Sydney’s early summer was almost as soothing as the fierce hug her father wrapped her in the moment she exited the gate. As large and solid as she was small and dainty, Maurice had a heart to match his physique. Belle never felt safer or more cherished than when she was in her father’s arms.

“God, I missed you, Bluebell,” he rasped, giving her one last squeeze before releasing her.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered. When she pulled away, she had to wipe tears from her cheeks.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, it’s just been a roller coaster the last couple of months.”

Maurice wrapped an arm around her shoulders, took her carry-on, and led her to the luggage claim. “You’re looking pale and you’re too thin,” he grumped.

“I’m always pale, Dad, and I eat like a horse.”

“Must be that city then. It’s not good for you.”

Belle laughed. “I love New York, you know that.”

“Hmph.”

Belle was absorbed in studying the city on the way to her father’s house - things were bound to have changed since she’d been there last. The flower shop, however, looked exactly the same with its riot of vines and overflowing planters. When he’d told her all those years ago that he was opening a flower shop, she’d been skeptical, but Game of Thorns had done very well. The flat in the back was neat as a pin - unnaturally so, even taking her visit into account. After setting her bags in her room, Belle looked around the spotless kitchen with growing suspicion.

“Did you hire a cleaning lady or something?” she asked when her father joined her.

“Oh, uh...no...not exactly…”

Belle quirked an eyebrow. “Not exactly?” She opened the refrigerator to get a soft drink and gasped. “Dad, there’s actual _food_ in here!” She spun around and glared at him playfully. “Who are you and what have you done with my father?”

Maurice shifted his weight. “Well, to tell the truth, sweetheart, I’ve...well, I’ve been...seeing someone.”

“Really? Dad that’s amazing!”

“You think so?” Maurice’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I was afraid you’d be upset.”

“Because of Mother?” Belle frowned. “That’s silly, Daddy, she’d want you to be happy. I do, too.” She pulled herself up to sit on a stool at the island and grinned. “How long?”

“A few months. Six,” he amended, “tomorrow.”

Belle froze. “Six months - that’s pretty serious.”

He avoided her eyes.

"She's moved in, hasn't she?" Belle asked shrewdly. ”That’s why the place is so tidy and there are veggies in the fridge.”

“You make me sound like an ogre,” he muttered. “I do clean, y’know.”

“So where is she?”

“She’s, uh, staying with a friend. I didn’t know - “

“You kicked her out? Dad!”

“I didn’t want you to - I don’t know - feel uncomfortable.”

“Well, now I feel bad that you made her leave! Get her back here tonight and I’ll make dinner for all three of us, okay?”

“Okay.” Maurice kissed the top of her head. “Her name is Joan, and she’s a teacher at St. Mary’s. I think you’ll like her.”

“Of course I will. We both know you have excellent taste in women.”

He snorted and left the room, probably to call Joan and have her return to the house. Belle smiled to herself and rifled through the fridge, planning dinner.

* * *

_My father is seeing someone. He didn’t tell me even though it’s serious enough that she’s moved in. I don’t mind really - it’s his private business and we’re not as close as we used to be. Still, I would have appreciated some warning. I’m beyond happy for him, though; he mourned my mother for so long I was starting to think he’d never look at anyone else._

_It probably helps that Joan is nothing like my mother. She’s tall and striking and jolly; Mother was tiny and serene. Joan loves football and spends the matches shouting at the refs; Mother would read or do the crossword and smile whenever Dad’s team won. Oddly enough, I don’t think either of them is necessarily a “better” match for my dad. He was blissfully happy with Mother and he’s pure sunshine around Joan. Perhaps there’s more than one perfect match for everyone - or maybe there’s no such thing, and the successes and failures of relationships are created entirely from our own actions and decisions._

It was another letter she’d never send. Belle sighed and saved the draft to languish alongside all the others. She hated this. She hated wanting to talk to him and not knowing how to start - or if he would even want to talk to her now. She hated missing someone who had hurt her and lied to her. She hated knowing that he was hurting and unhappy, too, and that she was at the root of that pain and unhappiness, even if it wasn’t her fault.

Joan had gone out to run errands and Maurice was in the shop, but he’d return soon, and Belle knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid a heart-to-heart when he did. He’d caught her looking sad and distant a few times too many over the past week. To that end, she had tea ready when he came into the kitchen. He took the cup she offered him, sat across from her at the island, and waited.

“Remember a few weeks ago when I said there might be someone?”

“Of course.”

“Well, there was.”

Maurice absorbed this information for a moment. “What happened?”

“He wasn’t who I thought he was. Or rather, he was someone I didn’t expect him to be.”

Maurice blinked. “Sorry, sweetheart, I tried to follow you…”

Belle smiled and recounted the whole story, from chatroom meeting to ghastly revelation. When she was done, Maurice shook his head with a smile.

“That’s quite a tale, Bluebell. It’ll make a good story for the grandkids.”

Belle choked on her tea. “Dad!”

“What?” His face was the picture of innocence.

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Sure I was.”

“Then you know he was dishonest and rude and…”

“And you’re in love with him.”

“I - “ Belle gaped at him. “But - you - “

Sipping his tea, Maurice raised his eyebrows pointedly. She paused and took a deep breath, easing the tension from her shoulders.

“And I’m in love with him,” she conceded. She dropped her head into her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Maurice soothed, stroking her hair. “You just have to decide what you want.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Mother and Joan...they had to be no-brainers, right?”

His hand left her hair as Maurice laughed, and Belle sat up and glared at him. “Sweetheart, your mother scarcely knew I existed at first, and Joan practically had to bludgeon me over the head to get me to notice she was flirting.” He sobered and took her hand. “With Colette, I had to gain her attention and even then I wasn’t sure it would work out. We were very different people, and it took us a little while to appreciate and enjoy our oddities. And Joan - well, that was far from easy. We’re both set in our ways and I’d pretty well resigned myself to eternal widowed bachelorhood. Relationships are always a struggle, but when you find something worth fighting for, you don’t give up.”

Belle smiled and kissed his cheek; the front door opened and they heard Joan struggling with her bags.

“Hey, Mr. Green Thumb, I could use some help out here!” she called.

Maurice squeezed Belle’s hand. “Do what makes you happy, sweetheart,” he said, then hurried off to help his girlfriend.

* * *

Late that night, Belle did the brave thing.

_I’ve _bee_ n thinking a lot about us this week, about what you were to me, what we were to each other. And I realized I’d built up a lot of expectations that weren’t fair - I should have realized that, as with every relationship, there were sides to you I couldn’t see and sides to me you couldn’t know. There was no way anyone could have lived up to the fantasy, and when you appeared and it seemed that my date had stood me up, my disappointment and anger and frustration came crashing down and I hated you. I hated you even more than was probably reasonable because I was so tired and disappointed. _

_And now you know something unfavorable about me: I can sometimes let my emotions cloud my judgement. I’m also impulsive and idealistic; Jefferson’s pointed out a few times that I act according to what I think_ **_should_ ** _happen rather than what probably_ **_will_ ** _happen. The mess with the “Mirror” is a perfect example. I jump into things often without thinking them through, and though I take responsibility for any disaster that might result, it can lead to people around me getting caught in the crossfire._

_If you still want to talk to me, I would like a chance to get to know you - the real you, the other side of spinners_luck that makes up you as a whole. I would like you to get to know me. I would like to learn what we can be to each other without barriers and secrets. What do you say? Are you up for it?_

Belle saved the message and went to her drafts. Taking a deep breath, she went through the folder and sent every single one - every email she’d typed and saved and couldn’t bring herself to discard since he’d said goodbye to her that late November day. She added a paragraph to her most recent message and sent that as well.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

* * *

At first Gold thought his email account had been spammed. The number of notifications he was receiving was alarming, and the amount of buzzing from his phone was growing embarrassing. His signature glare, though, cut off any complaints anyone at the board meeting might have dared to voice. He picked up the phone to silence it completely and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

They were all from Belle.

He fought to concentrate throughout the rest of the meeting. It could be nothing. They could be messages from their correspondence that hadn’t gone through the first time. Someone could have hacked her account. He could be hallucinating everything because he missed her so damn much. Really, any of those were more believable than that she had forgiven him and was actively speaking to him again.

When he was safely back in his office he opened his inbox and saw that the subject line of the most recent message said “Please read this one first.” There were no fewer than twenty messages below that, all from Belle. His mouth went dry. This was either very, very good or very, very bad. Shakily he opened the first message.

_Roderick,_

_If you want to delete all of these without reading them I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest, but if you can bear to hear me out, I hope what I have to say will be worth reading. These are all the messages I’ve written you since our last meeting; as much as I tried, I couldn’t get you out of my head, and you’re still the person I think of when I want to complain or rhapsodize or muse. You’re still my sounding board and you’re still my friend. I’ve missed you so much._

_I’ve been thinking…_

When he finished the message Gold felt dizzy and he realized he’d stopped breathing at some point. There were also, absurdly, tears in his eyes. Was he up for it? What kind of question was that? He answered her immediately and went back to work, but it was very difficult to maintain his usual facade of aloof irritability. A smile kept trying to bloom across his face at the most inconvenient times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I wrote a lot of this while I was subbing in a classroom for students with behavior disorders who took turns having screaming, kicking, throwing-chairs-across-the-room breakdowns. Since I'm not trained or certified in anything useful in that situation, mostly I sat at a desk and fiddled while Rome burned and the paras put out the fires. They literally asked me to just stay out of the way.
> 
> This chapter brought to you by shouts and cursing and lots of coffee.


	13. Chapter 12: Getting to Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Gold are finally on the same page, and much is asked and revealed.

To: livreamour@gmail.com

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com

Read this first.

Belle,

I’ve missed you, too, more than you can imagine. Below this message you’ll find every email I’ve written to you over the last month. We have that in common at least, the compulsion to put things in writing even if they’re never seen by another soul. I hoped I’d hear from you again, but I didn’t dare expect it, and yes, dear friend, of course I want to know you. It’s all I’ve wanted since we met - both online and off.

Sydney, I take it, is your hometown, then? When and why did you leave Oz for the Big Apple? You mentioned when we met that you had worked in your mother’s shop since you were six, so you must have been fairly young, yes? Were you able to go back periodically (and thus keep your charming accent) or was that merely a product of living with your parents?

Beware what liberties you allow me now, dearie. Having been offered the opportunity to know you, I will not be shy about asking questions. In return, though, I will gladly share anything of myself that you would like to ask. As a show of good faith, I’ll answer the above questions for myself without your prompting.

Glasgow is my native turf, and I was certainly no young chick when I emigrated. I’d already become estranged from my father, married my wife, qualified as a barrister, and had my son, no doubt all before you were born. I came over shortly after my divorce, following my father to New York at his behest - I thought he wanted to reconcile. In reality he was in a spot of legal trouble, as you discovered, and needed his lawyer son to help him fix it. How he came to be involved with books and bookstores I’ll never know, since he was just this side of literate himself, but in hindsight I knew my father would do literally anything to turn a profit. I dug the company out of the hole he’d put it in, bought him out, and claimed the company for my own. I haven’t done much else but work since - until I met you.

When do you return from Australia? And have you made any further progress on your book?

Belle felt dizzy with relief when she read his response - as well as the twenty or so emails beneath it. The evidence that he’d been thinking about her and missing her was like a balm to her soul; each message, like her own, breathed of loneliness and regret and yearning. In the most recent, she could practically hear his brogue thickening in his eagerness to ask and reveal, to know and be known. It was as if a dam had broken and he simply couldn’t hold back. She knew the feeling; they’d spent so long concealing and twisting their words to avoid personal details that it was a profound relief to write exactly what was on her mind. His invitation to ask him anything at all was so very different from their previous arrangement that she had no idea where to begin.

“Heard from your fella, I take it,” Joan said from the sofa, where she was painting her toenails bright red.

Belle looked at her in surprise. “How did you…”

“Smile like that, either you’re reading an email from your favorite person or you’re daydreaming about cheesecake.” She waved one foot in the air and looked thoughtful. “I guess it doesn’t have to be a fella, does it? Could be a lady.”

“It’s not,” Belle said. “And yes, I did hear from him. What did my dad tell you?”

“Nothing. He takes confidences very seriously, you know that. I just used my excellent brain and put two and two together. You were awful sad that first week, I figured it had something to do with a broken heart.”

“Not broken, really. Bruised a little, maybe, but nothing that won’t heal.”

“Thank God for that,” Joan sighed, starting on her left foot. “The last thing I need is your father haring off to New York to beat some poor boy to a bloody pulp.”

“He’s, uh, not exactly a boy,” Belle said. “He has a son and a grandson.”

“Even worse - two men their age brawling in the streets would be unseemly.”

Giggling, Belle set her laptop aside and sat cross-legged on the armchair. “I don’t think either of them have properly fought anyone in ages. It would probably end up like that fight scene from  _ Bridget Jones _ .”

“Your dad boxes now and then, so unless your man-friend is a big bloke he’d get the worst of it.”

“He’s not,” Belle smiled. “He’s not much taller than I am - I think maybe five seven? And he’s more wiry than anything. I think.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen him in anything less than a three-piece suit, actually.”

Joan’s eyebrows rose. “How long have you been seeing him?”

“I haven’t. Not really. It’s complicated, but I think we’re on the right path.”

“He’s an older guy, you said? Balding?”

“Not at all,” Belle said a little dreamily. “His hair is graying, but he wears it long, down to his shoulders. And he has these beautiful deep brown eyes and a strong nose…”

“Love a good nose, myself. How’s his bum?”

Belle broke into surprised laughter. “It’s, uh, nice. Very nice, actually.”

“Oh, good. After a certain age the bum starts to go, y’know.”

Helpless with giggles, Belle put her hands over her reddening face. Joan grinned triumphantly. When she’d caught her breath, Belle shook her head and directed a stern glare at her father’s girlfriend. “You’re terrible.”

“I know, it’s part of my charm.” Joan stood from the couch, her toes spread wide, and walked carefully on her heels toward the kitchen. “Go ahead and write your boyfriend back, I’ll start dinner.”

“I can do that…”

“It’s my turn. Shut up and type.”

_ My family history is almost hopelessly complicated. I was born in Sydney, but Mother was actually born in New York. Her mother was American and her father Australian; they divorced when she was sixteen and she wanted to go with her father. She told me later that she’d always wanted to see the world, and this was her chance to see at least one other part of it. She still saw her mother, though, and when Grandmother died she left Mother the store in New York. _

_ My father had just lost his job, I had just been born, and they were pretty hard up for money. Besides, Mother had always loved books and the idea of spending her whole life around them intrigued her. So Dad applied for a visa - Mother was technically a citizen already, after all - and away we went. Dad got his green card and I grew up in the store. We did go back now and then, at least until Dad’s parents died. Then Mother passed while I was in high school and Dad kept it together until I got out of college - he had to leave when I’d graduated. About five years ago he opened a flower shop in Sydney and he’s done pretty well. _

_ I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Gold, so ask what you will. I appreciate that little history, not least because it answers for me how you managed to hold onto your own lovely accent. I only have one question for you at this time: and it’s a very, very personal one, so you’re welcome to tell me it’s none of my business. _

_ You once mentioned that you’d made the safe choice instead of the brave one, and that you regretted it for a long time. You also said that you made it impossible for your son to stay with you. Are those things related? Do you feel comfortable telling me about them? _

_ I’m coming back on the 3rd, and yes - my book is almost complete. I never thought that I would write, not seriously, and can you guess who first got me thinking about it? You. I didn’t even realize it, but spending all this time writing to you was honing my skills. I’m proud of what I’ve written so far, and I hope others will like it as well. _

Well, of course they bloody would. She was brilliant, so whatever she wrote would be brilliant. Gold drummed his fingertips on the wood and stared at the screen, wondering where to begin. He glanced at his contacts list and smiled. She was online. Though what she was doing up so early when she was supposed to be on vacation he had no idea.

Don’t tell me you’re one of those awful morning people. He sent the message and hoped she hadn’t just forgotten to sign out. He grinned widely when she answered.

_ Afraid so. Gone off me, have you? _

“Oh, yes, obviously, madly in love with you until I find out you wake up at dawn,” he muttered.  Perhaps, he typed instead.

_ Shame. There are lots of fun things to do in the mornings. _

His brain short-circuited. She probably didn’t mean what he thought she meant, but even so…

_ You still there? _

Yes, sorry. What are you doing this morning?

_ Wrapping Christmas presents. We’re going to the beach in the afternoon and there’s a party tomorrow so I won’t have time otherwise. _

Crunched a bit, aren’t you?

_ Oh, I suppose you’ve had all your presents purchased and wrapped since the 1st. _

Don’t be absurd. That’s leaving it far too late.

_ Oh, haha. _

Actually, if you’ve the time...I wondered if we could talk.

_ Aren’t we talking now? _

Yes, but I meant on the phone. Or...isn’t there some call service or other?

_ I think you’re talking about Skype? _

Yeah.

Belle chewed her lip. It was a bit of a risk. Email and instant messaging allowed for self-censorship and careful consideration of words and responses, and video calls were even worse. But she’d said she wanted to get to know him, and it wouldn’t do to hide behind the barrier of cyberspace now.

Belle?

_ Sorry. If you don’t already have Skype it takes a while to download. One sec. _ She checked her hair in the reflection of her screen and pressed the video call option on the chat box and waited.

Gold jumped when the box popped up on his screen announcing a call from Belle. Running a hand through his hair and straightening his tie, he accepted the call and was knocked breathless when her lovely face filled his view.

“Hey!” she said, sounding a bit breathless herself.

“Hey,” he answered.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she said. “You might have to speak up for the microphone to pick you up.”

“Right, sorry,” he said a bit louder.

“It’s good to see you,” she smiled shyly.

“Yeah. Good to see you too.” As if that wasn’t the biggest understatement of the year. He was quiet for a full minute, caught up in relearning the shape of her face and the blue of her eyes.

Belle fidgeted when she realized that she’d been staring at him silently; that had to be off-putting. “So, uh, what did you want to talk about?”

“Did I ever tell you why I chose spinners_luck as my screenname?”

“No, but I’ve always wondered.”

“I didn’t grow up with my father; you might have gleaned that much.”

“You said you were estranged, yeah.”

“He left me with my aunts when I was a lad; they had a sheep farm and they earned money spinning wool for local artisans. They taught me their craft and I was really quite good.”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Do you still spin?”

“Now and then. Helps me to forget.”

“Forget what?”

He paused for a long moment, and Belle thought he might not answer.

“It helps me to forget that I was, for most of my life, unwanted and unloved, and that when I had those gifts I squandered them.”

“Neal?” Belle asked quietly.

“Among others, but yes, above all, Neal. Baeden. Bae, which, I’ll thank you to recall, was his nickname long before the internet appropriated it.”

“What happened?”

“When Milah and I divorced, Neal was only three. I had the opportunity to sue for custody. She wasn’t an unfit mother, but I wasn’t wild about the company she kept. In the end, though, I was afraid of being responsible for him on my own, so...so I left him with her. She loved him, she was good to him. I was assured I could visit whenever I wanted.”

“That was the safe choice you talked about, wasn’t it?” Belle asked, feeling tears welling in her eyes. “But I don’t see...you were only trying to make sure he’d be cared for. Family courts almost always favor the mother anyway; you might not have won, and custody battles are hell on kids.”

“Milah didn’t see it that way, and after a few years neither did Neal. I wasn't making much money at the time, and the little I could give was never enough; Milah thought I was holding back on purpose, and she wasn’t shy about sharing her suspicions. Every time I went to see him he was colder and more distant with me, and it broke my heart. Before I left for the States, I tried to sue her for shared custody, but Neal spoke against me in court. He said that I didn’t love him, that I was only trying to hurt his mother, that I was only trying to prove a point.”

“Oh, my God,” Belle whispered.

“The suit was hurting both of us, so I...I gave up. I moved to the States. I visited less and less because I just couldn’t stand to see that look in his eyes, our phone calls grew less frequent and shorter, and then...then one day I got a call from him from LaGuardia.” He paused and ran a hand across his eyes. “He was fourteen by then, and Milah had remarried. Some chap in the navy. He’d been re-stationed and Milah had decided to go with him, but Bae and Jones hadn’t gotten along and - and she’d put him on the plane to New York.”

“Without even calling you?” Belle gasped. Her heart was racing in her chest and her cheeks glowing with anger.

“According to her, she did call but couldn’t get hold of me. She swore up and down to the airline that there’d be an adult waiting for Bae in New York, or they’d never have let him on the flight. This was the late ‘90s, you understand, and he didn’t have a mobile, he had to call from the security office…”

“But I don’t understand,” Belle interrupted. “You said you made it impossible to stay with you. How was any of this your fault?”

“If I had insisted on custody, none of this would have happened, but I’m not done, Belle.” Roderick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “That incident - it shook me pretty badly. Bae was still a bit too young to understand what could have happened, but I was fucking petrified. I wouldn’t let him out of my sight. I smothered the poor boy - no teams, no clubs, no sleepovers. I just couldn’t stand the thought of him being anywhere where I couldn’t watch him at all times. He hated me for it. And when he turned eighteen, he ran away.”

He looked so miserable that Belle wished she could transcend the laws of time and space and hug him through her computer screen. 

“I didn’t hear from him for three years, though I spent every moment of those thinking of him and wishing for him and paying the very best private inspectors to look for him. He finally surfaced washing dishes in a restaurant downtown, under the name of Neal Cassidy, and it took me weeks to work up the courage to approach him.”

“What did he do when you did?”

“He ignored me at first, but I got him to take my card. I told him to call me if he ever needed anything. A few days later, he called, but it wasn’t to ask me for help...it was just to talk. We talked a lot, about what his Mum had told him about me and...well, it was never flattering. He said that my looking for him and showing up to see him didn’t mesh at all with what Milah had always told him.”

“And what was that?”

“That I never wanted him, hated the trouble and expense of going to see him, and would shove him on his way when he was eighteen.”

“ _ What? _ Why...what an evil, manipulative…didn’t he know, when he’d lived with you for four years, that that wasn’t true?”

“Four years of strict, totalitarian parenting compared to twelve of emotional blackmail? No, I never stood a chance.”

“But you’re working together now and Henry adores you. So things got better, right?”

“Yeah, they did.”

They were silent for a few seconds, each lost in thought, and then Belle gave him a small smile. “Thank you for telling me.”

He shrugged. “Thank you for wanting to know.”

Their gazes met and held, and the moment stretched between them, heavy with words not yet ripe enough to speak.

“I missed you,” Belle said finally.

His eyes glowed. “I missed you, too,” he rasped.

“We should...do this again? Tomorrow maybe?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

She smiled. “You should get to bed, it’s late.”

“And you have a beach to enjoy.”

“That I do. Sweet dreams, Roderick.”

“Goodbye, Belle.”

For a bit it seemed as if neither of them could bring themselves to ring off, but then Joan shouted for Belle to hurry up or they’d miss all the good spots, and Belle gave him a little wink before disconnecting the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, hello Exposition Fairy.
> 
> I approached this chapter like the curse break in Season 1. Belle was all, "I remember you and I love you." and he was all "I love you too" and it was smooching time (I mean, alongside "please don't kill Regina/ok I won't but really I will").
> 
> Joan is a random name I chose. She's about ten years younger than Moe. She crashed into my brain with a loud voice and red toenails and I really needed to see more of her. I hope you liked her.
> 
> Thanks for the responses, everyone!


	14. Chapter 13: Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is celebrated, a proposal is made (sort of), and things become a little more defined.

Christmas was his this year, but as he was feeling uncharacteristically generous, Gold invited Emma’s parents to spend the holiday with them. He wasn’t exactly fond of the Nolans, but they were good to Neal and doted on Henry, so he tolerated them. Emma had inherited the best traits of her parents: David’s charm and confidence, Mary Margaret’s determination and strength. He admired those characteristics, and he couldn’t very well like his daughter-in-law without appreciating her parents. Tonight, however, was his alone.

Neal and Emma had dropped Henry off early on Christmas Eve so he could help his grandfather decorate, an activity that usually resulted in the two of them covered in tinsel. This year was no different, but at least Henry’s spatial sense had improved: the ornaments were less likely to end up clustered together at the front of the tree. When everything was arranged to Henry’s satisfaction, Gold sent him to take a bath and started dinner.

Dinner with his family and a chat session with Belle later - it was shaping up to be the best Christmas in recent memory. If he wasn’t careful, he might start humming, and then he’d have to sit out every family holiday for the rest of his life. Henry appeared in time to set the table, and Gold had just moved the potatoes to a serving dish when he heard the door open.

“The place looks great, Papa,” Neal said as he set a pie on the table.

“Smells great, too,” Emma said, breathing deeply. “I swear I look forward to this all year.”

“We don’t come every year,” Henry said.

“On those years I look forward to Thanksgiving.”

Gold smiled and held a chair for her. “Are your parents still joining us tomorrow?”

“Yeah. They’re treating it like some kind of Christmas miracle. ‘And Gold’s small heart grew three sizes that day.’ I keep telling them you’re not some evil imp, but…”

Gold smirked. “Why do you insist on trying to ruin my image? Maybe I want them to think that.”

Emma rolled her eyes and helped herself to a potato. “You should probably stop talking to Belle, then. No one’s ever going to believe she’s friendly with a monster.”

He tried to restrain the dopey smile fighting to break free, but judging by Neal’s smirk he wasn’t entirely successful. “I guess I’ll have to be extra beastly to make up for it.” He turned the topic to Henry’s school and encouraged the boy to lead the conversation.

After dinner, Neal insisted on washing the dishes, and Gold hovered in the kitchen. Emma and Henry had banned him from the living room; apparently there were unwrapped presents he wasn’t to see. Neal kept glancing at him and smiling - sometimes smugly, sometimes sadly - and Gold was finally unsettled enough to break the silence.

“What do you keep smiling about?” he grumped.

“You’re happy. I’m not used to it yet.”

“I can throw a few plates around if it would make you more comfortable.”

“No, I’m glad you’re happy, it’s just...I mean, think about how weird it was for you when you first saw me with Henry - your smartass, borderline delinquent son cooing and mushy over a squalling bundle of blankets.”

“I wasn’t much better off than you,” Gold pointed out, his face softening at the memory. Holding his newborn grandson ranked in the top two best moments of his life, scarcely behind holding his newborn son.

“Yeah, but that’s _you_. You’re a family guy, always have been.”

“It wasn’t weird to see you that way. I’ve always known how fully and fiercely you can love, Bae.”

“Okay, fine, bad example. I _am_ glad you’re happy, Papa. Thrilled, in fact. I guess I’m just sorry it didn’t happen sooner. Mom and I didn’t exactly make life easy on you.”

“Oh, Bae, none of that was your fault,” Gold said, horrified.

“I know, but sometimes I look back and wish I’d been a little more...I don’t know, understanding, or perceptive, or something. I knew how Mom could be, but I still - I just believed her because it was easy.”

“Stop it.” Ignoring Neal’s squawk of protest and the dirty water dripping on the floor, Gold grasped his boy’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “She’s your mother, you loved and trusted her. I never, _never_ blamed you for that.” He pulled back and, unable to stop himself, ran a hand over his son’s thick dark hair. “Besides, you turned out alright, and that’s what’s important.”

“God, you’re such a sap,” Neal grumbled, ducking away, but his eyes were a little misty and his voice cracked a smidge.

Gold smirked and started packing up leftovers. As he put the last container in the refrigerator, Henry ran into the kitchen, breathless with excitement. “Dad, Grandpa, hurry up! It’s almost time for cookies!”

Neal and Gold followed the boy into the living room, where Emma was just positioning the final packages under the tree. She glanced up at Gold and grinned.

“I noticed there are gifts under here for my parents,” she said.

“What kind of Scrooge invites people over for Christmas and doesn’t have gifts for them?” Gold defended himself. “It’s common courtesy.”

“Right.” Emma rolled her eyes and moved to sit on the sofa by Neal, who draped an arm over her shoulders. “And you’re all about the courtesy.”

Henry dove at the tree and pulled out a present. “Open mine, Gramps!”

They always opened one present on Christmas Eve, “just to take the edge off,” as Neal said, and Henry always insisted on his grandfather opening his. It was almost always something he’d made at school, and this year was no exception: a picture frame, decorated with buttons and beads, containing a portrait of the three younger Golds. Roderick hugged his grandson and promised it was exactly what he’d wanted. When the others had opened theirs - a leather bracelet for Emma, a set of craft beer glasses for Neal, and a thick illustrated encyclopedia of dinosaurs for Henry - Emma pointed out that it was getting late, and if certain little boys didn’t get to bed, Santa wouldn’t be able to come. Concerned, Henry rushed to pick out cookies for Santa to snack on and, with his new book tucked under his arm, gave everyone hugs goodnight before scampering off to his room.

“The one night of the year I don’t have to beg and plead and read just _one more story_ ,” Emma sighed, burrowing further into her husband’s side.

“Cherish it while it lasts,” Gold said mildly. “It ends sooner than you think it will.”

She gave him a very sad, sympathetic look. “I will.”

“We can play Santa tonight,” Neal said after a few moments of silence, absently playing with his wife's hair. “You have a date, don’t you?”

“Yeah, in five minutes or so.”

“Say hi from us," Emma smiled, and waved him on his way. "Merry Christmas, Pops."

"Papa," he corrected her.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, and he left them to their canoodling. He had a date to get to.

* * *

 

_Meanwhile, in Sydney:_

Christmas morning Belle awoke to the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing. She grinned into her pillow when she heard Joan curse loudly at the pan and Maurice quietly soothe her. Rarely did anyone bring out Maurice’s soft, protective side, but somehow Joan had managed it. Glancing at the clock, Belle saw that she had a couple of hours until her chat date, so she put on her robe and wandered into the kitchen. Maurice was sliding pancakes onto a plate while Joan poured coffee.

“Merry Christmas, Bluebell,” her dad beamed, passing her the plate.

“Merry Christmas!” Belle looked at her plate and laughed. “How am I supposed to eat four pancakes?”

“With smiles and Christmas cheer,” Joan replied, placing a coffee mug on the island in front of her, "not to mention lots of syrup. Eat up, we’ve got presents to open before your boyfriend calls.”

“He’s not really my boyfriend,” Belle pointed out for what felt like the hundredth time. She hadn't corrected Joan the first time and she'd lived to regret it. “We haven’t even been on a date yet.”

Joan waved a hand. “Technicalities. Whom else are you video calling today?”

“No one, but…”

“And is it likely he has another steamy chat date set up after yours?”

“No, but…”

“He’s probably your boyfriend, then.”

Belle sighed. “I give up.”

“Wise move,” Maurice laughed. “I usually do.”

“Wait - our chats are not _steamy_ ,” Belle protested.

“Oh. Shame.”

Pancakes eaten, the trio adjourned to the living room to open gifts. Gorgeous and thoughtful as those from Joan and her father were, Belle thought her greatest gift was watching the two of them as they smiled and laughed and nudged each other like a couple of teenagers looking for any excuse to touch. When Joan got up to make more coffee, Belle took the seat by her father and elbowed him.

“You look happy,” she said.

Maurice smiled at her. “I am.”

“She’s pretty great.”

“That she is.”

“So do any of these boxes hold jewelry? Maybe of the diamond variety?” Belle grinned when her father blushed.

“Not...uh...no, not yet, but...soon, probably? We haven’t really discussed it.”

“But you’ve thought about it?”

“Of course I have. I’m an old-fashioned man at heart, Belle. I wouldn’t have asked her to move in if I wasn’t planning on marrying her.”

There was a crash from the doorway and Belle and Maurice whipped around to see Joan standing there, her eyes wide and the glass of water she’d been holding shattered at her slippered feet.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered. “I’m sorry, I - “

“Don’t move,” Maurice said as Belle rushed for towels and the broom. Maurice knelt at Joan’s feet and began gingerly picking up the larger pieces of glass. When Belle returned, she froze in the doorway between the hall and the living room. Joan was staring at Maurice as if she might be dreaming and was afraid to wake up.

“Did - did you mean that?” Joan asked, her voice unusually soft.

Maurice set the pieces of glass aside and looked up at her, confusion in every line of his face. “Of course I did, Joanie. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, you’ve never said - and I didn’t mind, really I didn’t - I’m happy as we are - and I figured we’d just live and be happy, y’know?”

“So you don’t - you don’t want to marry me?” Maurice sounded crushed.

“No, of course I do! I mean, obviously. I just didn’t think _you_ wanted to - “

Belle watched with wide eyes as her father shook his head and pulled Joan into his arms. Carefully setting the towels on the floor, Belle turned and hurried to her room, her face aching from her smile. It was time to get ready for her chat date anyway.

* * *

Seven days.

Seven days of nightly chat dates, of shared laughter, of companionable silences, of sweet smiles. Roderick had felt as if he were floating the whole week long. His good mood had been confusing for the Nolans on Christmas Day, and the employees and board members at his office had been downright baffled by the sight of their sour CEO actually _smiling_ at odd intervals - not his crocodile grin that signaled trouble for the recipient, either, but a genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. One of the secretaries whispered that she’d heard him _laugh_ once, but as she was the sole witness many dismissed this as idle gossip.

New Year's Eve came and he was preparing, at a quarter to eight in the morning, to ring it in with Belle as midnight approached in Australia. Her father and Joan were throwing a party that was part New Year’s, part impromptu engagement celebration, but she’d promised to steal away for a few minutes to talk to him. The call came at 7:50, and he nearly swallowed his tongue, because Belle appeared on his screen wearing nothing, as far as he could tell, but a smile.

He lost all ability to speak or form coherent thoughts, completely incapable of doing anything but stare at her shoulders and the slope of her neck, left bare by the elegant upsweep of her hair. The camera didn’t capture anything below that, but his imagination was more than willing to supply him with possible visuals. Belle’s smile faltered a little when he said nothing for a full thirty seconds.

“Roderick? Are you there? Did the video freeze?”

“I...ah...no, I don’t...I don’t think so.”

“Oh. You weren’t saying anything. Are you okay?”

“Yeah...I…” He ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair. “Are you...do you…”

“Hold on, you’re cutting out. Maybe my connection is wonky?” She sat up a little taller in her chair to check something on her computer and his breath returned to him in a gust. She wasn’t naked after all, but wearing a strapless party gown, and he felt like an idiot for thinking otherwise, but really it was eight in the morning and his brain was not functioning at full capacity.

“How’s the party?” he asked as his heart rate returned to normal.

“Oh, good, it’s working again! The party’s great, everyone’s really happy for Dad and Joan. Drinks are flowing, food’s disappearing, and no one’s thrown up yet, so basically a win.”

“Everyone gearing up for the big countdown?”

“Oh, yeah, everyone’s paired off.” Was it his imagination, or did she sound wistful? “Almost everyone, anyway.” Definitely wistful.

“No offers?” He rather hated himself for asking, but she’d brought it up, after all.

“A few. None I cared to take.”

He couldn’t help smiling at that. “I shouldn’t be glad to hear that, but I am.”

“Shouldn’t you?” She stared into the camera for a moment, and though they couldn’t really look into each other’s eyes it certainly felt as if she were delving into his soul. “What are we, Roderick? To each other, I mean.”

“Honestly?” he sighed and gestured vaguely with one hand. “We’re whatever you want us to be.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. One person shouldn’t have that much power. What do _you_ want out of this...whatever it is?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that what he wanted didn’t matter, but an echo of something Neal had said a few months ago sounded in his head. _Your feelings always matter. Why do you act like they don’t?_ He had a feeling Belle would think the same, especially as she had asked.

“I want to be with you,” he said finally, the words dropping out of his mouth like hot coals. “I’ve wanted that for almost as long as I’ve known you. I’m just afraid it’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“I...I thought that was obvious. I put you out of business. I ruined your life.”

A frown creased her forehead and she opened her mouth to reply, but a door opened behind her and loud music overpowered her voice. Rolling her eyes, she rose and stomped to the door - revealing that her dress was short enough to have stopped his heart again if it weren’t so busy working overtime - closed it firmly, and locked it. When she returned, the frown had smoothed out, replaced by calm and resolve.

“I’ve been thinking about that, actually.” His heart dropped to his stomach. “Here’s what I’ve figured: you said you were sorry for the way things happened, and I believed you. Yes, you put me out of business, but even though I was angry at you, you didn’t ruin my life.”

“But…”

“I’ve done a lot of things over the last few weeks that I wouldn’t have done otherwise. I’m writing again, and a few publishing houses have expressed interest in my first book - before it’s even finished. Apparently,” she laughed a little, “I have something of a reputation as an expert on children’s books. I used to dream about being a writer, but I didn’t have time until the shop closed. I’m not saying I’m glad we went out of business - I’ll probably never be glad about that - but my life isn’t ruined. It’s changed, sure, and my future is a bit more uncertain than it used to be, but that’s okay. I’ve decided to make the most of this new path.”

“Alright.” Gold took a deep breath. “Well, then, what is it that _you_ want out of this?”

Belle’s smile was just a touch uncertain. “Joan’s been calling you my boyfriend for a week, and I have to say I like the sound of it. If...if that’s okay with you.”

His tongue felt like sandpaper. “Oh, aye. More than okay.”

Her eyes sparkled and she smirked, shaking her head. “Just my luck. The first time in years I have a boyfriend on New Year’s and he’s an ocean and a continent away.”

He grinned. “I can make it up to you when you get home.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

They smiled giddily at each other until Belle jumped, looking behind her at the closed door. “The countdown’s started,” she said. “Happy New Year, Roderick.”

“Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late! I was supposed to have more time last week but then I didn't, and then there was a mini-vacation with the hubby this weekend, so poor Belle and Gold got sidelined for a few days.
> 
> And now...what will happen when they finally reunite?
> 
> P.S. I will never not be salty about the short shrift given to Baelfire in the show. Never. I might have it put on my tombstone: Here lies Nerin28, Beloved Wife, Salty to the End. Til then, every fic I write will feature Bae alive and well and devoted to his family.


	15. Chapter 14: Bella Notte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold manages to be a smooth operator for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is the sappiest, sugariest, rom-commiest thing I have ever written in my life. Bring your insulin.

When Belle emerged from the gate, tired and cranky, she was ready to stumble into a cab, snooze all the way home, immerse herself in a lavender-scented bath, and sleep until she felt marginally human. A sight awaited her, though, amongst the name cards and sleepy faces in the terminal, that jolted her awake and set her to grinning like an idiot.

“Roderick?” she called.

Roderick smiled and lifted one hand when she caught his eye. Beaming, she wrestled her carry-on across the vast open space and didn’t stop until they stood toe to toe, her neck craning to look up into his eyes. She’d almost forgotten how warmly those eyes could glow and God, seeing him on her screen was nothing to seeing him in person. The clamor of the airport and the press of bodies around her faded into the periphery of her awareness and there was no one and nothing in the world but the two of them, gazing and smiling and breathing.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said reverently.

“What are you doing here?” She took his left hand to assure herself that he was real.

“Picking you up,” was his maddeningly obvious answer.

“Well, yes, but how…”

“Not that many flights coming from Sydney through Seoul. I did a little sleuthing.” He looked down at her their joined hands. “I could take your bag if you…”

“Not a chance,” Belle declared, squeezing his fingers and smiling when he blushed.

“That’ll make collecting your suitcase challenging, love.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He made as if to walk away, but she was still holding fast and standing as if rooted to the spot. Her teeth worried her lower lip. “What is it?” he asked.

“I - “ she sighed. “I want to hug you, but I’m not sure…”

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, muffling her explanation in his wool overcoat. Belle, forced to relinquish his hand, returned the embrace, relishing his warmth and solidity. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and felt the last bit of tension seep from her muscles. When he pulled back he didn’t let go straight away, and Belle moved her hands to his shoulders. Smiling up into his face, she contemplated taking things one step further until an unfortunate truth forced its way into her consciousness.

“You cut your hair!” she exclaimed. Unbidden her fingers went to the nape of his neck and toyed with what little hair she could reach there. His eyelids drooped a little and he suppressed a shudder.

“Yes...I only wanted a trim but my regular barber didn’t have any openings. I went to this new place - The Blue Star, it was called - and the idiot woman took off much more than I wanted. In the end there was no salvaging it. You don’t, uh, mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.” She tugged a little on his hair and smirked when his hands tightened around her waist. “You’re devastatingly handsome like this, too. I was looking forward to running my fingers through it, that’s all.”

He swallowed thickly. “I can grow it out again. Might take a while, though.”

She shrugged. “Take all the time you need. I’ll wait.”

Much as he would have loved to stand near the arrivals gate with Belle in his arms for the rest of his life, there were things to do. Gold gently pulled away from her and took her hand to lead her to the luggage claim. She chattered about her holiday all the way out to the line of limousines waiting for passengers, and then she stood gaping at the town car he’d reserved, complete with chauffeur.

“Are you serious?” she squeaked as the driver took her bags and put them in the boot.

He smirked. “I didn’t want to have to drive when I would rather focus on you. Besides, I said I’d make up for New Years. Are you hungry?”

An hour ago she’d wanted nothing more than to sleep, but his presence had breathed new life into her. She grinned and nodded, and he helped her into the car. It was sheer bliss to sit next to her and talk and look and hold hands without worrying about his possibly crashing the car. She had started out a respectable distance away, but as the ride continued she had scooted closer until their legs were brushing and her seatbelt was stretched to its limit.

He was thinking of putting his arm around her shoulders when the car stopped. Smiling ruefully, he helped her out of the car and, her hand tenaciously gripping his, led her into a restaurant which, besides a single table set for two, appeared deserted. Belle froze inside the door, taking in the elegant china and silver and the flickering candles.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“Tony’s.”

She eyed him with skeptical amusement. “Don’t tell me you reserved the whole restaurant.”

Gold shrugged. “Tony owed me a favor.” He hung his coat on a hook near the door and helped her out of hers, then led her to the table.

Belle laughed breathlessly as she sank into the chair he held for her. “That’s not shady at all.”

He winked at her and rang a little bell at the center of the table. Two men appeared from the kitchen and set out two hamburgers, two tall glasses of iced tea, and two small slices of chocolate cake before vanishing again.

“Wow,” Belle breathed. “You weren’t kidding about making it up. What are you trying to do, sweep me off my feet?”

“That’s the general idea,” he muttered, sudden shyness sweeping over him.

She reached out and placed a hand over his. “Well, it’s working.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He smiled more confidently and they ate; this time he filled the silence with stories about his holiday and his family and his work, scarcely noticing as the two waiters he’d hired flitted about them, filling their glasses and whisking plates out of the way the moment they seemed satisfied. Conversation began to wind down, and Belle sighed, taking his hand once more.

“This was wonderful, Roderick.”

“Care for a drink?” he asked, rising from the table and walking over to the bar.

“Seriously?”

“Tony gave us the run of the place, dearie. What’ll it be?”

She rose and walked up to the bar, leaning against it and admiring him in the low light. “How about a champagne cocktail?”

“Coming up.”

She didn’t think it was possible for him to be sexier, but somehow he managed it, preparing the cocktail with practiced ease and actually flipping the bottle of cognac before pouring it. He presented the glass to her with a flourish and smirked when he realized she was staring at him.

“I’ve tended a few bars in my time,” he said modestly. “Through university and law school.”

“Right,” she took a deep, steadying breath to quell the butterflies in her stomach and took a sip of her drink. “This is the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.”

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” he murmured, moving to the end of the bar. “I told you I’d make up for New Year’s Eve, and I intend to do just that.”

He lifted his right hand and snapped, and strings of white lights glowed around the walls and across the ceiling. Another snap, and the televisions in the corners blinked to life and a recording of Times Square at one minute to midnight appeared on the screen. Looking almost insufferably proud of himself, Roderick walked from behind the bar and approached her.

Belle prided herself on her brains and her mastery of words, but in those moments that he stood before her she damn near forgot how to breathe, and she sure as hell couldn’t speak with anything resembling intelligence. Her hands were trembling when he took them in his, and her heart was pounding in her ears.

On the screen behind him, the glittering ball touched down and Roderick whispered, “Happy New Year, Belle.”

She couldn’t have answered if she’d wanted to, but it didn’t matter because he had leaned down to press his lips to hers, and there was nothing but him and her and the recorded cheers of the crowd and the strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” Her fingers dropped his in favor of carding into his hair, and his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer, removing even the illusion of space between them. Whimpering, Belle arched against him, deepening the kiss the moment he gave her the opportunity, her hands sliding down from his hair to twine under his shoulders and press into his back.

When necessity forced them to part, they were both breathless and flushed. Belle looped her arms around his neck and smiled dizzily. “Wow.”

Roderick chuckled and buried his face in her hair. “Wow, indeed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her neck, just under her jaw.

“So...anymore surprises?” she asked tremulously, and he pulled back to look into her eyes. His expression serious, he shook his head slowly.

“Oh, good. So we can do this for a little while longer.” She grabbed his jacket lapels, rose up on her toes, and kissed him hard, grinning against his mouth at his muffled grunt. He’d left his cane by his chair, and he stumbled a bit as he backed up to lean against the bar, pulling her with him and exploring her mouth with single-minded intensity. His hands buried in her hair and anchored within her curls, gently directing the angle of her head and the tilt of her chin so that he could leave no corner unexplored, no spot unkissed. His fingers brushed against the skin at the nape of her neck and she gasped, her hands diving underneath his jacket and attempting to push it off his shoulders.

He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “What are you…”

“You’re wearing a lot more layers than I am and it’s not fair,” she said huskily.

Roderick smirked and shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over a barstool. He wasn’t wearing a vest, which was just fine with Belle. “There. Satisfied?”

Belle tilted her head and studied him. “Not remotely,” she purred. She reached for the knot of his tie and loosened it, pulling the loop of silk over his head and tossing it over one shoulder, then she undid the top button of his shirt. He stood still as a statue, staring at her in wonder as she looked him over critically, then undid one more button for good measure. “There,” she whispered, leaning up to press her mouth to the skin of his neck. “Much better.”

He let out a strangled groan and pulled her against him, but he made no attempt to redirect her kisses. His hands roamed her back and dove into her hair as she lavished attention on his neck and what little she could reach of his chest, his breath coming in short pants.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered when her hands popped open another button and revealed more skin for her to explore. She gave his collarbone a nip and he gasped. “Belle!” Her arms snaked around his waist and began to venture south of his waistline. “Stop, love,” he rasped, taking her shoulders and pushing her away from him very gently.

His words doused her ardor as fully as if he’d dumped a bucket of ice over her head. “I’m sorry!” she said frantically, struggling a bit against his grip. “I didn’t mean...I thought you…”

“Oh, I want to, darling, believe me,” he growled, and she relaxed immediately. “But you’re exhausted and jetlagged and…”

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. “Are you suggesting I’m not in my right mind, right now?”

“Oh, for God's sake,” he muttered, rubbing one hand over his face. “I’m sorry. Of course not. I just...I didn’t...I hoped for a kiss, I didn’t expect...I didn’t think you…”

“You didn’t think I wanted you?” The idea was so ludicrous that Belle would have laughed if she hadn’t suspected that it would send him running for the hills. “I’ve wanted you for ages.”

“Ages?” He smiled and rested his hands on her waist.

“Since you came into my shop and pretended you weren’t checking me out.”

Roderick chuckled. “I don’t think i had the presence of mind to pretend. I was completely smitten from the first.”

“Me too.” She smirked when he raised his eyebrows incredulously. “A gorgeous, well-dressed Scotsman walked into my shop and asked for Romantic poetry. I was ready to throw my panties at you.”

He ducked his head and laughed. “Thank God you didn’t. I’d have had a heart attack for sure.”

She smiled and pushed her fingers through his hair, enjoying the way he shivered and closed his eyes.

“So we’re clear?” she asked. “This is definitely a mutual thing?”

“Oh, aye,” he breathed, his hand lifting to cup her cheek and brush his thumb along her bottom lip. “Crystal clear, love.”

“Good.” She kissed him tenderly and rested her forehead against his. “Then take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That was fun.
> 
> Also, yes, I decided the Blue Fairy is responsible for Rumple's short hair. Because she's the worst, obvs.


	16. Chapter 15: Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle and Gold have conversations and go to breakfast. Important things are said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, guys. So much fluff that I desperately needed after tonight's train wreck of an episode.

Roderick became gradually aware of warmth and softness and, to his amusement, very quiet snores. He turned his head slowly and saw that Belle had plastered herself to him during the night, one arm thrown across his chest, a leg curled around his knee, and her face burrowed into his shoulder in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable but apparently was, because she was still out like a light. Her mouth was slightly open and his shoulder was just the teensiest bit damp. He couldn’t imagine a better way to wake up.

Memories of the night before flooded his senses. Kisses and caresses and sighs and squeezes, gasps, whispers, moans, cries...if he lived to be a hundred he knew he could never forget a single moment of it. And she was still here, in his bed. If he moved to his side he could hold her in his arms.

He was contemplating the heady feeling of euphoria that accompanied that thought and wondering how he could convince her never to leave when her snores stuttered and her arm twitched. He turned his head to see that she was blinking in the late morning sunlight; her eyes focused on him and she smiled, an expression that easily eclipsed the weak winter sun and warmed him to the bone better than any of the blankets they’d tossed to the floor could have.

“Hey,” she said.

He turned onto his left side and smiled into her eyes. “Hey.”

Belle moved back a little and he resisted the urge to protest. She reached up and traced the fingers of one hand down his cheek, her eyes softening and her smile growing dreamy when he returned the gesture and buried his fingers in her hair. “Not another dream, then,” she said with a chuckle.

“Another?” he asked with a surprised grin.

“I told you I’ve wanted you for ages,” she reminded him.

“Right.” He allowed himself the luxury of studying her face and smiled when he realized she was doing the same. He leaned in to press a kiss to her lips and thrilled at her little stuttering gasp. The fact that he had the ability to make her gasp and swoon would never cease to amaze him.

“You’re very mellow in the morning,” Belle said when he’d released her mouth. “I pictured you a lot grumpier, you said you weren’t a morning person.”

“Never had much to look forward to in the mornings,” he said. “Perhaps I could be persuaded to reconsider my position.”

“An interesting idea,” Belle smiled and kissed him briefly, and he reached to hold her, but she sat up and moved to the edge of the bed.

“Where are you - ?”

“I have some things to take care of,” she said with a gentle frown. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.” She picked up her underwear and his shirt, slipped them on with a wink, and headed into the en suite bathroom.

Gold released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and rolled onto his back, covering his face with his hands. Absurdly he felt close to tears, and he scolded himself for such sentimentality before sitting up and attempting to locate his boxers and trousers. It was rather late in the morning, and they would both want breakfast sooner or later, so he should probably get to work on it before they got...distracted...again. God, he hoped there’d be an “again.”

Something somewhere on the floor began to buzz, and he located his phone under the bed - how exactly had it gotten there? - and picked it up. The text was from Neal.

**How did it go?**

Nosy boy.  Fine.

**We’re having lunch today, right?**

Ah. Right. He always had lunch with Neal and his family on Sunday afternoons. He hadn’t expected last night to go so well, or he’d have canceled.

I’m not sure.

There was no answer for a full minute, and then when he did reply Roderick could almost see Neal’s smug expression behind the words.  **Ah. Ok. Let me know when you know.**

Cheeky boy. Roderick was grinning sheepishly at his phone when Belle emerged from the bathroom. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I, uh...I forgot that I normally have lunch with Neal and Emma and Henry on Sundays.”

“Okay,” Belle said slowly, drawing the word out. “Should I...should I go?”

“What? No!” Roderick shot to his feet and fell back down on the bed when his ankle gave out on him. “No, of course not. Stay, Belle, please.”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” Belle said with a smile, climbing back on the bed. She pulled on his arm until he was sitting next to her, leaning against the headboard. “I just didn’t want to intrude on family time.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that she could become a part of the family any time she wished, but the words felt a little too new to say aloud. “You wouldn’t be intruding. We can eat with them or by ourselves, but either way I don’t...I don’t want you to go just yet. If you want to stay.”

“Of course I want to stay.” Belle took his hand. “But are you sure about a ‘meet the family’ lunch so...so soon?”

“You’ve met two of them,” Roderick pointed out.

“Yeah, but not as your girlfriend.”

He truly couldn’t help the ridiculous grin that broke across his face at that.

“What?”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve referred to yourself as my girlfriend. I’m savoring it.”

She rolled her eyes and elbowed him gently. “Dork.”

“Really, though, I wouldn’t worry about it. Neal has been...er…”

“Hinting? Nudging you along?”

Roderick laughed. “If he’d ever had the chance, he would quite literally have drugged us and locked us in a closet together.”

“Huh.” Belle scooted closer and kissed his shoulder, her hands twining around his arm. “Is he always this invested in your love life?”

“I never had much of one for him to invest in.”

To his disappointment, she stopped her exploration of his shoulder and stared up at him. “You’re - you’re kidding.”

“No. There was his mother and then one very ill-advised girlfriend not long after he ran away.”

“Huh.” She returned to his shoulder.

“You’re surprised?”

“Pretty surprised, yeah. You’re awfully swoon-worthy, y’know.”

“Am I?”

“Mm-hmm.” She was working her way up his shoulder to his neck, and he was fighting the urge to push her down onto the mattress. “The eyes...the hair...the suits...the voice...God, that voice of yours is a lethal weapon.”

“Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” he chuckled, finally turning a bit so that he could put his arms around her. She was kissing up the side of his neck to his jaw now, and he was proud of his ability to string words together.

“What do you mean?” She pulled away and looked up to admire her handiwork: his flushed face and darkened eyes, his labored breathing and ticking jaw.

“That sultry Australian alto of yours - it was attractive before, but when you’re fresh from Oz and moaning my name…” he leaned in and nuzzled her neck, nipping it lightly and grinning when she gasped, “...no siren’s song could be more alluring.”

“Charmer,” she murmured, pulling his head up so that her lips could meet his. He gave in then and began to guide her down to lie amongst the pillows, but just as his hands began to wander to interesting places, she put a hand on his chest and pushed lightly. “Lunch, Roderick. What are we doing about lunch?”

“Come with me,” he murmured against her lips.

“Oh, I intend to,” she teased. “But lunch?”

“Minx. Come to lunch. Let me show you off.”

She searched his eyes for a moment. “Okay. I’ll come.”

“Damn right you will,” he growled, and she laughed breathlessly as he resumed his quest.

* * *

 

Belle leaned against the bathroom door and watched as Roderick drew the razor slowly down his throat. Swallowing, she internally scolded herself for getting riled up over watching him shave, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the stretches of skin being slowly revealed from under the white foam. He caught her eye in the mirror and raised his eyebrows. Smiling coyly, she walked into the room and stood beside him.

“If you’re trying to distract me, I’d appreciate it if you could wait until I didn’t have sharp metal against my throat,” he said.

“Am I distracting?”

“Unbearably so.”

She smirked and leaned against the wall, allowing her eyes to drift over him. He was almost fully dressed in trousers and undershirt, but it was a very, very good look for him. She loved the suits of course, but she appreciated the idea that this version of Roderick - vulnerable and casual - was hers alone.

“If you keep looking at me like that we’ll never leave this apartment,” he growled.

“Are you complaining?”

“Not at the moment, but I will when we are inevitably interrupted by my well-meaning busybody of a son.”

“You told him we’d be late.”

“I told him we’d be an hour late. An hour isn’t long enough for what I have in mind.”

Belle felt her cheeks glow. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He finished toweling his damp face and leaned in to kiss her. “And we’ve already used up half of that hour, anyway.”

“Hey, the bathtub was your idea,” she argued.

“One of my better ones, certainly,” he agreed, moving into the bedroom.

Belle, having dressed herself in a woolen skirt and a sweater nearly twenty minutes ago, sat on the bed as he went about the apparently painstaking process of choosing a shirt and tie. “You’re quite the clothes horse,” she teased. He looked over his shoulder uncertainly and she smiled a little more gently. “I like it. You always look so handsome.” Was it her imagination, or did he actually puff up a little at the compliment? He was adorable.

They walked out of the apartment building right on schedule, making for the small restaurant that was apparently a favorite with Emma and Henry. Belle, despite Roderick’s assurances, was feeling fluttery and nervous. She’d met Henry and Emma, true, and she’d seen Neal at the store before she knew who he was, but that had been as the Story Lady and the proprietor of Avonlea Books, not as the girlfriend of their beloved patriarch. She had a feeling that quite a lot was riding on this meeting, and she wished she had Roderick’s confidence that it would go well.

“You’re quiet,” he said when they’d walked half a block in silence.

Belle shrugged, unsure how to voice her concerns in a way that wouldn’t sound as if she were fishing for compliments.

“You’re still worrying,” he sighed. “Don’t, Belle. Trust me, they’re going to be absolutely beside themselves.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the whole lot of them have been after me to ask you out for months.”

“ _ What? _ ”

“Henry maneuvered me into that scene at the Halloween party, Emma lectured me about telling you the truth, and Neal conspired with Jefferson to set us up. They’re all in on it together. They see this - us - as a team effort.”

“Oh,” Belle said weakly. She wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse. The expectations were different, now, but they were still high.

“You don’t have to come,” Roderick said after a few more minutes of silence. “If you’re uncomfortable…”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want to mess this up.”

He stopped and looked at her incredulously. “How could you possibly do that?”

“I don’t know. But...aren’t we moving awfully fast?”

Oh, damn. She knew she’d said the wrong thing because the light in his eyes that had been entrancing her since she woke up that morning dimmed and his shoulders drooped. How could she explain herself without hurting him? How could she make him understand that what scared her wasn’t the speed with which everything was happening, but her level of comfort with that speed? Like she was strapped securely in a rocket and enjoying every second of liftoff.

“It’s just that two weeks ago we weren’t even talking and now we’re meeting the family,” she said a little desperately. “It’s been wonderful, but...”

“Right, of course,” he sighed. “I understand.”

“If you understood you wouldn’t sound so sad,” Belle said, tears forming in her eyes. “I’m not saying anything’s wrong, or that I’m not happy, or that I regret anything that’s happened. It’s not, and I am, and I don’t! But are you  _ sure _ about this?”

“Am I sure that I want to properly introduce the woman I love to my family?” he all but snapped. “Of course I’m sure! What about that would - “ He broke off and stared at her round eyes and open mouth. “What?”

“You just...you called me the woman you love,” Belle whispered.

His mouth opened and closed a few times, then he took a step back from her and folded his hands on his cane in a defensive posture that she recognized from their argument before Christmas. “So I did,” he said a little stiffly.

“You...you love me?” Belle crossed the space between them and put a hand on his, biting her lip when she realized his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

He took a deep breath. “Yes, Belle. I love you.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Roderick watched helplessly as the tears in Belle’s eyes spilled over. “Honestly, sweetheart, I didn’t think I’d left any room for doubt,” he said, turning one hand over to grasp hers. “And it may seem fast, but when you consider how long we’ve known each other - how much we’ve revealed - it’s not so farfetched, is it?”

“No,” she said finally, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve. “Sorry, I just…”

“No need to apologize.”

“It  _ does _ feel fast, but it also feels  _ right _ , and I was scared because I thought...I guess I thought it was just me.”

Roderick blinked. “What?”

“I love you, too,” she whispered, “ _ so _ much.” Her grip on his hand was nearly painful, but he wouldn’t complain even if she somehow managed to break every bone. She stepped closer, used her free hand to tug his head down, and pressed her mouth to his, not in a chaste peck, but a desperate, heart-stopping kiss that left his head reeling.

“Okay,” she whispered when she finally released him. “Now we’ve got that sorted, I think I’m ready to meet this matchmaking family of yours.” She tugged on his hand to get him to move again, and he followed her obediently. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but he wasn’t about to press his luck.

When they reached the restaurant they saw the three younger Golds waving from their window seat, Henry visibly bouncing up and down in excitement. Neal’s grin looked painted on his face, and Emma’s eyes were shining. Roderick, having regained his composure, raised one sardonic eyebrow at them while Belle smiled and waved back. When both were seated and had given their orders, Henry turned to Belle with breathless excitement.

“Are you gonna be my new grandma?”

Gold choked on his coffee and briefly wished for the sweet mercy of death, but alas he recovered and his vision cleared. Neal looked like he might pop a blood vessel with the effort to keep from laughing and Emma hid her face behind her hands. Belle, however, smiled serenely.

“Maybe one day, if your grandpa is very, very good and asks very, very nicely.”

Neal croaked and Emma squeaked, and Gold thought that perhaps he was already dead and having a bizarre out-of-body experience.

“Cool. Remember to say ‘please,’ Gramps,” Henry said cheerfully.

“For now, though, you can just call me Belle,” Belle said, sipping her water. “How was your Christmas vacation? Did you get everything you wanted?”

“Yeah! I got the new  _ Captain America _ movie, and a book about dinosaurs, and a new bike! What about you? Did you get what you wanted?”

“Oh, definitely,” Belle smiled, squeezing Roderick’s hand under the table. His heart glowed and he answered her grin. “Everything I wanted and more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not confident in my smut-writing abilities. Maybe after a little more practice I'll write a deleted scene. For now, enjoy the fades to black.
> 
> We're one chapter away, I think. Thanks for joining me on this journey, everyone!


	17. Chapter 16: They Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Understandings are reached, bets are won and lost, and someone gets hit with a pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so much later than the others. I tried to post every couple of days, but man, this chapter was tough. Contrary to previous announcements, this is not really the final chapter: there will be an epilogue .

_ Four months later _

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I can’t believe I’m  _ doing _ this! I’m gonna mess everything up and it’s gonna be awful.”

“You’re messing up your hair.”

“Shit! I’m a disaster!”

“You’re not. You’re lovely, you’re happy, and everything is fine. See? A few bobby pins and all’s well.”

“God, sis, get a grip. Aren’t you a little old for cold feet?”

Joan glowered at her matron of honor. “Bugger off, Pat.”

“Don’t make me put you two in time-out,” Belle threatened as she finished her work on Joan’s hair. Joan turned away from the mirror and breathed deeply, and Belle stepped up to ensure no damage and been done to her own hair and makeup. She’d run into Roderick on the way to Joan’s dressing room and he’d been rather... _ enthusiastic _ in his appreciation for her bridesmaid dress. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of his lips and his hands, and she turned to see that both of the other women were smirking at her knowingly. “What?”

“Nothing,” Joan said dryly. “But you’ve missed a button.” She stepped behind Belle to adjust the dress. “Honestly, can’t that silver fox of yours keep his hands to himself for thirty minutes?”

“Even if he could, she probably can’t,” Pat said, fanning her cheeks with a program. “And who could blame her?”

“Well, if you two are going to snog all night can you at least charge admission? Half my friends are mad that  _ you’re _ unavailable, and the other half are mad that  _ he _ is. This way they could live vicariously and you could make some cash.”

Belle snorted and shook her head. Pat and Joan were prevented from making further inappropriate suggestions by a knock on the door: the officiant making sure everyone was ready to begin. Joan’s panic had been forgotten in her teasing Belle, and she walked out of the room as cheerfully and as confidently as if she’d never worried in the first place.

There wasn’t much of pomp or circumstance in the ceremony - the bridal party gathered at the front of the room and waited for their guests to find seats. Maurice and Joan had written simple vows that brought tears to Belle’s eyes, especially when she was unwise enough to glance into the crowd and meet Roderick’s gaze. He never seemed to look away from her.

When the officiant pronounced them man and wife, the gathering cheered - a few of the men threw their hats - and the newly bonded Frenches led the crowd to the reception room. Roderick caught up to Belle halfway up the aisle and slipped his arm around her waist. She smiled up at him, admiring the way his hair swung about his eyes. Handsome as he’d been with short hair, she loved running her fingers through his soft, wavy locks. Judging by the sounds he made when she did, he approved as well.

“Lovely ceremony,” he murmured. “Blessedly short, too.”

“Joan insisted,” Belle smiled, carefully leaning into his side. “Said she wanted to get to the party as soon as possible.”

There were no formal place settings, no “first dance,” and no sentimental speeches from family members. A buffet table lined one wall, tables for four or six surrounded a large dance floor and the DJ was already in full swing. The bartenders were mixing drinks - Joan and Maurice at the very front of the line - and a few adventurous couples had begun the dancing.

“You find a seat,” Belle said, “and I’ll fetch us some drinks.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a decent whisky,” he grumbled.

“Of course there is; Dad insisted.”

Maurice had taken an instant shine to Roderick, much to Belle’s relief. The two men had absolutely nothing in common beyond an appreciation for football and love for her, but that appeared to be enough. On her father’s side, Roderick’s ability to pay for a couple of trips to Australia a year probably had a great deal to do with how quickly they’d bonded.

“Don’t forget that Ruby asked for pictures,” Roderick reminded her when she found him and handed him his Scotch.

“That was when she thought Joan chose horrible bridesmaid dresses,” Belle shrugged. “But if you insist.” She took out her phone and snapped a selfie with him before he could protest. “Perfect! That’s going on facebook.”

“Oh, yes, that’s brilliant,” he growled. “My sour auld mug next to your fresh face.”

“Shut up, you look gorgeous.”

He was still grumbling, albeit with half a smile on his face, when Joan dropped into a chair at their table. “What the hell are you two doing all by yourselves over here?” she asked, waving her glass of vodka cranberry. “You need food.”

“I hope you’ve had some,” Belle said, eyeing the drink warily.

“Course I have. Go on, get some grub.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Fine,  _ Mum _ .”

“Oh, God, no, anything but that,” Joan shuddered.

Roderick made to get up, but Belle stopped him. “No, the rain’s been hell on your ankle. I’ll get the food.”

“You don’t have to…”

But she was gone before he could finish his sentence.

“Good, she’s gone. Now, look, you,” and Joan leaned across the table and poked Roderick in the chest. “I don’t know if you were planning on upstaging my wedding with a romantic proposal, but if you are, could you do it before cake? I’ve got a bet with Moe.”

Roderick sputtered.

“Whether it’s today or not, don’t you dare leave this continent without putting a rock on that girl’s finger, do you hear me?”

“I - “

“Good then.” Joan rose and swanned off just as Belle returned with two plates of food.

“Are you okay?” she asked, noticing that her boyfriend had turned an interesting shade of red.

“Brilliant,” he muttered, draining his whisky. The velvet box he’d been carrying with him everywhere since they landed on this godforsaken prison colony felt like a boulder in his pocket. He hated Joan for a moment, because two parts of him were now at war: the stubborn bastard wanted to wait until they’d returned to New York just to spite her, but the lovelorn suitor didn’t think he could wait even another half hour. The stubborn bastard was oldest and most familiar, but the suitor had been gaining strength and willpower over the last few months.

He supposed it would all come down to opportunity.

It wasn’t that he feared her rejection, exactly. She was careful about making sure that he knew exactly how she felt about him, unwilling to let him doubt her affections even for a moment. But it was still a risk, and risks were frightening, and Roderick Gold had never been a brave man.

The music shifted and Cole Porter crooned over the speakers. Joan and Maurice were in the center of the floor, laughing softly as they swayed and circled. Belle watched them with sparkling eyes, and Roderick steeled himself to do something he’d promised his daughter-in-law he’d do. Rising from his seat and hooking his cane over the back of the chair, he held one hand towards his girlfriend.

“Dance with me?” he asked.

Belle stared up at him and beamed, nearly blinding him. “Really? You never dance.”

“I can handle this, I think, with a few adjustments.”

She rose so quickly her chair almost toppled over, then took his hand and allowed him to lean on her to step a few feet away from the table. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he took most of his weight on his left leg and had her loop her arms around his neck. She was still smiling in dazzled disbelief.

“I feel like I’m in junior high again,” she teased even as her fingers twined with the ends of his hair.

“Well, I thought about having one of the groomsmen approach you with one of those ‘check yes or no’ notes, but that seemed excessive.”

She tugged a little on his hair and his arms tightened around her.

“Thank you for coming here with me,” she said after a moment.

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

Belle couldn’t help but melt a little at that. “I know.”

“Even that wretched book launch party next week.”

“Oh, stop it, it’s going to be wonderful.”

“No, your book is wonderful.  _ You  _ are wonderful. The party will be dreadful; they always are.”

“Well, I’ll make it up to you after, then.”

He sighed and pulled her flush against him, pressing his cheek to her hair. Her heels made her tall enough to look over his shoulder, and she pressed a kiss to his neck above his shirt collar. He wasn’t going to make it out of this reception hall, was he? The words were bubbling up in his throat and he knew it was only a matter of time before his nerves reduced him to a babbling mess. Backing away from her so abruptly that she almost tripped, he lunged for his cane and took her hand in his again.

“Come for a walk with me.”

She eyed him suspiciously but agreed. They left the hall and strolled out into the garden beyond, the May sunlight - thank God they’d had good weather for one day at least - warming the air. 

“You know I don’t actually mind the launch party, don’t you?” he said after a few moments. “You’ve achieved something amazing, and you deserve recognition and praise.”

“Of course I know that. You were just teasing, and I love your sense of humor.” Belle squeezed his hand. “What’s really bothering you, Roderick? You’ve been acting a little strange all week.”

He was silent for a minute, gathering his thoughts. Belle watched and waited, trying not to get distracted by the way the wind blew his hair. Finally he tugged on her hand to bring her to a stop and turned her to face him. He took a deep breath and released her.

“Belle, your friendship has been the most important of my life, offered without judgement or expectation. Your love has meant even more - a dream I scarcely dared to hope would come true.”

Belle’s heart was pounding in her throat, and she couldn’t have torn her eyes from his face for anything.

“Perhaps that should be enough, but...I’m a selfish man, sweetheart, and I can’t help but want more.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and Belle thought she might faint.

“You’ve gifted me with your friendship and your love. Will you please honor me with your hand as well?” He took another deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

He opened the box to reveal a ring with a slim white gold band and a large square diamond, but Belle couldn’t see any more detail through the tears in her eyes. With a choked sob she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with everything she had. He responded with equal fervor, but when the first rush of excitement faded she realized that he hadn’t taken her in his arms. She drew back, surprised and a little worried, to look into his face.

He looked dazed and triumphant, tears glistening in his eyes, but his hands were still gripping his cane and the ring. “Th’ words, love,” he said huskily, his brogue thicker than she’d ever heard it. “I cannae gie ye th’ ring until I hear th’ words.”

With shaking hands she smoothed his hair back from his face and then pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” she whispered, “yes,” a kiss to the other corner, “yes!” She slanted her lips over his and thrilled when he dropped his cane in favor of wrapping his arm around her waist.

When they broke apart, Belle took the ring from the box herself and slid it onto her finger. It fit like a dream, of course; no doubt there’d been a top secret reconnaissance mission to discover her ring size. Henry and Neal were certainly involved, and perhaps Jefferson and Ruby had played a part as well. 

“You like it?” He sounded nervous.

“I  _ love _ it.” Of course, he could have proposed with a candy ring pop and she’d have had the same response. She smiled when he breathed a sigh of relief.

“I told Neal that night at Cafe Lalo,” he said, “that if there was the tiniest spark between us, I’d be crazy not to marry you. He’s been threatening to commit me for two months.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Well, you’re safe now.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“For saving you from the asylum?”

“No. For seeing me. For forgiving me.”

She reached up to cup his face. “Thank you for finding me.”

“I, uh...I have to call Neal,” he said after a moment of smiling into her eyes. “I promised I would as soon as I had your answer.”

“I should go tell my dad, at least.”

“Ah, I’m afraid he’s not going to be very happy with me,” Roderick grimaced.

“What? Why?”

“Apparently I lost a bet for him.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “Children, the two of them. They’re perfect for each other.” She gave her fiance a lingering kiss. “Go on and call him, I’ll go talk to the newlyweds.”

Roderick grinned and called his son. So what if it was five in the morning in New York? He’d promised, after all.

“Papa? Wassamaddah?” His son’s sleepy voice made him chuckle.

“You told me to call when I had news.”

“News...wha...oh! Emma...Emma, wake up!”

Sounds of Emma snuffling and cursing, followed by a few muffled thumps - pillow strikes, it sounded like - told Gold that his son’s wife did not enjoy being awakened at the crack of dawn. Neal returned, sounding a little out of breath.

“So am I getting a stepmother?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Awesome. Maybe  _ she’ll _ buy me a motorcycle.”

Gold snorted. “Not bloody likely.”

“Congratulations, Papa.” Neal’s voice softened. “You’re happy, right?”

“Incandescently.”

“I’m too tired to remember what that means, so I’ll assume it’s good. Give her a hug from us, okay?”

“‘Course. I love you, son.”

“Love you too, Pops.”

Gold smiled as he hung up, then laughed when he heard Maurice’s cheer. Inside the reception hall, Belle was being smothered in her father’s hug, her face red and glowing. Joan had poked her head out one of the windows and spotted him.

“You!” she shouted. “Get in here right now!”

With a grin he bent to pick up his cane and limped across the lawn to shake Maurice’s hand and be goodnaturedly scolded for winning Joan’s bet for her.

* * *

“Why are you hiding back here?”

Belle turned and motioned for Jefferson to be silent. Shrugging, he came further into the darkened room and put an arm around her shoulders. Beyond the door he’d inched closed, the launch party was in full swing.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, I was just...thinking about Mother.”

Jefferson hugged her a little closer. “She’d be proud, y’know?”

“Yeah, she would be. I know that now. She always wanted me to make my own mark.”

“And now you have.”

“It’s strange, but when the store was closing I felt like it was the end of everything, but it wasn’t just an end, was it? It was also a beginning.”

“For all of us. Ruby’s gone back to school and I’m managing at Goldleaf. You’ve got your budding career as a writer, and we’re all doing wonderfully. You did good, Belle.” The door opened and Roderick stood silhouetted in the frame. Jefferson gave her a crooked grin. “Plus you’ve found a guy who knows you almost as well as I do. He’s been worried. Let him fuss, okay?”

“Like I could stop him if I tried,” Belle answered with a smile. Jefferson kissed the top of her head and, on his way out the door, gave Roderick’s shoulder a slap that made Belle wince.

“You’re alright?” Roderick asked, pulling Belle into his arms.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just thinking about endings and beginnings.”

“Ah. We’ve had quite a few of those this year.”

“We have, and I’m grateful for all of them, but...”

Roderick raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“It’s silly, I guess, because I have you now, but...I miss spinners_luck, sometimes.”

“Oh, really? I guess you haven’t checked your email recently, then.”

“What? Yes, I have!”

“Not your old livreamour account.”

Belle dove into her purse for her phone, but Roderick grabbed her hands. “Oh, no, you don’t. Later. Tonight you need to be Belle. Livreamour and spinners_luck can wait.” He pulled her toward the door. “Come on, sweetheart. Your public awaits.”

* * *

Late that night, when Roderick was fast asleep and snoring amongst the pillows - how dared he complain about  _ her _ snores! - Belle could no longer resist the allure of her laptop. She padded into the living room with her computer and opened the account she hadn’t touched since New Year’s Eve, when she and Roderick had made the transition from virtuality to reality.

Sure enough, there was a message, dated the day before her father’s wedding. Belle read it twice, her heart in her throat each time. When she could see again through her tears, she typed a response and returned to bed, snuggling up to her fiance, certain that she was the most fortunate woman in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely comments throughout the story! I felt like I'd really accomplished something when this story hit 100 kudos, and I'm grateful that so many people have enjoyed my first foray into Rumbelle fanfiction. You are all appreciated!
> 
> An epilogue to go.


	18. Epilogue

From: spinners_luck@gmail.com 

To: Livreamour@gmail.com 

My darling Belle, 

With any luck, I haven’t lost my nerve and, by the time you read this, I will have the privilege of calling you my finacee. I’ve rehearsed what I wanted to say to you every day for two weeks - and you are very welcome to tease me for that in future - but I’ve no doubt that some of what I want to say will be lost in the moment, so I commit these words here for you to read at some later date. 

I am in constant awe of you, my love. Your courage and optimism are ever an inspiration to me, and it amazes me that you are able to find the good in everyone, and to create it if it isn’t there. You make me want to be the best version of me, and that has never happened before. You challenge me, and make me grateful for the opportunity to improve. You console me, and I believe that I am worthwhile. You complete me, sweetheart, in ways I had almost given up hoping for. 

I can never repay the debt I owe you for all you have given me, and if, as I hope, you’ve accepted my hand, I will do my best to ensure that you never regret it for a single moment. While they are mine to keep, I will guard your heart and happiness more jealously than my own, and place my faith in your love and compassion. By some miracle of fate, I am, now and for all the future, yours. 

 

_From: Livreamour@gmail.com_

_To: spinners_luck@gmail.com_

_Dear Roderick,_

_When we began this adventure, all I knew about you was that you loved books and read German. Barely a year later, there is no one who knows me more thoroughly, and no one I love more completely._

_I love the way you read as if the book has pulled you into its pages and you can't bear to look away - it's something we share. I love the way you eat chocolate like you're making love to it - and I love how easily I can get my way with a promise of brownies. Most of all, I love how completely you love - with all your heart and soul and mind, holding nothing back and asking little, so very little, in return._

_It frightens me a little to realize how many times I lost you, but then I’m comforted by remembering that we found each other again. What we have isn’t perfect, it’s something far better: it’s real. There have been cracks and chips in our relationship that were mended and are now stronger than ever, and I wouldn’t trade our imperfect love for the purest True Love fairy tales can offer._

_Please don’t talk of debts as if I’ve received nothing worthwhile. You inspired me to write, you reminded me of my dreams, and you taught me that everyone has a story to tell that is worth hearing. I am a stronger, more complete person today because of you, and if the price of that is reminding you daily how much I love you, I’ll gladly pay it._

_From now until forever, my love, as you are mine, I am yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay. So that's over.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who liked and commented on this little project of mine. I loved writing it and I'm still brimming with ideas for stories, so I'm glad I have a community wherein to share them.
> 
> Personal Anecdote: The first eight months of my relationship with my husband were conducted entirely through email and Skype (and Myspace, which was more popular than facebook, THAT IS HOW OLD I AM) - we'd met in person but had to separate physically due to a work contract. I fell in love with his words, and while our relationship could not be more different from Belle and Gold's, the concept that two people can fall in love sight unseen (or rarely seen) was one that I felt qualified to explore.
> 
> There were some other scenes I thought of including but ultimately they didn't add much to the story or advance the plot. Is this what it means to open a fic for prompts? So you can ask me about possible deleted scenes? If so, that's what I'm doing. I'm at smartgirlsaremean.tumblr.com and anactofego.tumblr.com which was supposed to be my writing blog but I'm not sure what I'm doing on tumblr yet. So they're both just kind of big messes.
> 
> Anyhoo: thanks everyone for reading and commenting! I hope you loved reading as much as I loved writing.


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